THE 
BENT  TWIG 


m*^ 


BY 

DOROTHY  CANFIELD 

AUTHOR'OF 
THE    SQUIRREL   CAGE, 
HILLSBORO     PEOPLE,     Erfc. 


V2T 


NEW   YORK 

GROSSET&  D  U  N  L  A  P 

PUBLISHERS 


Matli  in  the  United  States  ci  America 


Copyright,  x&s, 

BY 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Published  October,  1915 

Reprinted 

November,  December,  1915; 

April,  May,  July  (twice),  August, 

September,  December,  1916 

September.  191? 


ENGLISH 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES   OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I 

IN  ARCADIA  _Arir 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    Sylvia's  Home 3 

II    The  Marshalls'  Friends 12 

III  Brother  and  Sister 26 

IV  Every  One's  Opinion  of  Every  One  Else      .      .  38 
V    Something  About  Husbands 44 

VI    The  Sights  of  La  Chance 53 

VII    "  We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident  ..."  70 

VIII    Sabotage 92 

IX    The  End  of  Childhood 103 

BOOK  II 
A   FALSE   START   TO   ATHENS 

X    Sylvia's  First  Glimpse  of  Modern  Civilization    .  113 
XI    Arnold's  Future  Is  Casually  Decided      .      .       .123 

XII    One  Man's  Meat 131 

XIII  An  Instrument  in  Tune 138 

XIV  Higher  Education 145 

XV    Mrs.  Draper  Blows  the  Coals 153 

XVI    Playing  with  Matches 165 

XVII    Mrs.  Marshall  Sticks  to  Her  Principles      .       .  179 
XVIII     Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice  .       .       .       .192 

XIX    As  a  Bird  out  of  a  Snare 206 

XX    "  Blow,  Wind;  Swell,  Billow;  and  Swim,  Bark!  "  217 

XXI    Some  Years  During  Which  Nothing  Happens      .  232 

BOOK  III 

IN   CAPUA   AT  LAST 

A  Grateful  Carthaginian 

More  Talk  Between  Young  Moderns 
v 


XXII 
XXIII 


237 
250 


vi  Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIV  Another  Brand  of  Modern  Talk      .       .      .      .261 

XXV  Nothing  in  the  Least  Modern 273 

XXVI  Molly  in  Her  Element 284 

XXVII  Between  Windward  and  Hemlock  Mountains    .  301 

XXVIII  Sylvia  Asks  Herself  "  Why  Not?  "  .       .       .       .312 

XXIX  A  Hypothetical  Livelihood 322 

XXX  Arnold  Continues  to  Dodge  the  Renaissance    .  333 

XXXI  Sylvia  Meets  with  Pity 341 

XXXII  Much  Ado 354 

XXXIII  "Whom  God  Hath  Joined  ..." 364 

XXXIV  Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth 370 

XXXV  "  A  Milestone  Passed,  the  Road  Seems  Clear  "  .  384 

XXXVI  The  Road  Is  Not  so  Clear 392 

XXXVII  "...  His  wife  and  children  perceiving  it,  began 
to  cry  after  him  to  return;  but  the  man  put  his 
fingers  in  his  ears  and  ran  on,  crying,  'Life! 

Life   Eternal!'" 400 

XXXVIII  Sylvia  Comes  to  the  Wicket  Gate  ....  409 

XXXIX  Sylvia  Drifts  with  the  Majority    ....  418 


XL 

XLI 

XLII 


XLIII 
XLIV 

XLV 

XLVI 
XLVII 


BOOK  IV 
THE   STRAIT  PATH 

A  Call  from  Home 431 

Home  Again 440 

"  Strange  that  we  creatures  of  the  petty  ways, 

Poor  prisoners  behind  these  fleshly  bars, 

Can  sometimes  think  us  thoughts  with  God  ablaze, 

Touching  the  fringes  of  the  outer  stars "  .       .       .     448 

"Call  now;  is  there  any  that  will  answer  thee?"   .     451 

"A  bruised  reed  will  He  not  break,  and  a  dimly 

burning  wick  will  He  not  quench"      .       .       .     457 
"  That  our  soul  may  swim 
We  sink  our  heart  down,  bubbling,  under  wave  "    .     461 

A  Long  Talk  with  Arnold 466 

".  .  .  And  .All  the  Trumpets  Sounded!"    „      .    479 


THE  BENT  TWIG 


BOOK  I 
IN  ARCADIA 

CHAPTER  I 
SYLVIA'S  HOME 

Like  most  happy  childhoods,  Sylvia's  early  years  lay  back 
of  her  in  a  long,  cheerful  procession  of  featureless  days,  the 
outlines  of  which  were  blurred  into  one  shimmering  glow 
by  the  very  radiance  of  their  sunshine.  Here  and  there 
she  remembered  patches,  sensations,  pictures,  scents: 
Mother  holding  baby  sister  up  for  her  to  kiss,  and  the  fra- 
grance of  the  baby  powder — the  pine-trees  near  the  house 
chanting  loudly  in  an  autumn  wind — her  father's  alert  face, 
intent  on  the  toy  water-wheel  he  was  setting  for  her  in  th€ 
little  creek  in  their  field — the  beautiful  sheen  of  the  pink  silk 
dress  Aunt  Victoria  had  sent  her — the  look  of  her  mother's 
steady,  grave  eyes  when  she  was  so  sick — the  leathery  smell 
of  the  books  in  the  University  Library  one  day  when  she 
followed  her  father  there — the  sound  of  the  rain  pattering 
on  the  low,  slanting  roof  of  her  bedroom — these  were  the 
occasional  clearly  outlined,  bright-colored  illuminations 
wrought  on  the  burnished  gold  of  her  sunny  little  life. 
But  from  her  seventh  birthday  her  memories  began  to  have 
perspective,  continuity.  She  remembered  an  occasional 
whole  scene,  a  whole  afternoon,  just  as  it  happened. 

The  first  of  these  must  have  marked  the  passing  of  some 
unrecognized  mental  milestone,  for  there  was  nothing  about 
it  to  set  it  apart  from  any  one  of  a  hundred  afternoons.  It 
may  have  been  the  first  time  she  looked  at  what  was  about 
her,  and  saw  it. 

9 


4  The  Bent  Twig 

'  'Mother  was  putting  the  baby  to  bed  for  his  nap — not  the 
baby-sister — she  was  a  big  girl  of  five  by  this  time,  but 
another  baby,  a  little  year-old  brother,  with  blue  eyes  and 
yellow  hair,  instead  of  brown  eyes  and  hair  like  his  two 
sisters'.  And  when  Mother  stooped  over  the  little  bed,  her 
white  fichu  fell  forward  and  Sylvia  leaned  to  hold  it  back 
from  the  baby's  face,  a  bit  of  thoughtfulness  which  had  a 
rich  reward  in  a  smile  of  thanks  from  Mother.  That  was 
what  began  the  remembered  afternoon.  Mother's  smiles 
were  golden  coin,  not  squandered  on  every  occasion.  Then, 
she  and  Mother  and  Judith  tiptoed  out  of  the  bedroom  into 
Mother's  room  and  there  stood  Father,  with  his  University 
clothes  on  and  yet  his  hair  rather  rumpled  up,  as  though 
he  had  been  teaching  very  hard.  He  had  a  pile  of  papers 
in  his  hand  and  he  said,  "  Barbara,  are  you  awfully  busy 
just  now  ?  " 

Mother  said,  Oh  no,  she  wasn't  at  all.  (She  never  was 
busy  when  Father  asked  her  to  do  something,  although 
Sylvia  could  not  remember  ever  once  having  seen  her  sit 
and  do  nothing,  no,  not  even  for  a  minute!)  Then  Father 
said,  "  Well,  if  you  could  run  over  these,  I'd  have  time  to 
have  some  ball  with  the  seminar  after  they're  dismissed. 
These  are  the  papers  the  Freshmen  handed  in  for  that 
Economics  quiz."  Mother  said,  "  Sure  she  could,"  or  the 
equivalent  of  that,  and  Father  thanked  her,  turned  Judith 
upside-down  and  right-side-up  again  so  quick  that  she  didn't 
know  what  had  happened,  and  left  them  all  laughing  as 
they  usually  were  when  Father  ran  down  from  the  study 
for  something. 

So  Sylvia  and  Judith,  quite  used  to  this  procedure,  sat 
down  on  the  floor  with  a  book  to  keep  them  quiet  until 
Mother  should  be  through.  Neither  of  them  could  read, 
although  Sylvia  was  beginning  to  learn,  but  they  had  been 
told  the  stories  so  many  times  that  they  knew  them  from 
the  pictures.  The  book  they  looked  at  that  day  had  the 
story  of  the  people  who  had  rowed  a  great  boat  across  the 
water  to  get  a  gold  sheepskin,  and  Sylvia  told  it  to  Judith, 
word  for  word,  as  Father  always  told  it.    She  glanced  up 


Sylvia's  Home  5 

at  Mother  from  time  to  time  to  make  sure  she  was  getting  it 
Tight;  and  ever  afterwards  the  mention  of  the  Argonauts 
brought  up  before  Sylvia's  eyes  the  picture  of  her  mother 
that  day,  sitting  very  straight,  her  strong  brown  fingers 
making  an  occasional  mark  on  the  papers,  as  she  turned 
them  over  with  a  crisp  rustle,  her  quiet  face  bent,  in  a  calm 
fixity  of  attention,  over  the  pages. 

Before  they  knew  it,  the  work  was  done,  Father  had  come 
for  the  papers,  and  showed  Sylvia  one  more  twist  in  the 
acrobatic  stunt  they  were  learning  together.  She  could 
already  take  his  hands  and  run  up  to  his  shoulders  in  one 
squirrel-like  dash;  but  she  was  to  learn  the  reverse  and 
come  down  on  the  other  side,  and  she  still  got  tangled  up 
with  which  foot  to  put  first.  So  they  practised  whenever 
they  had,  as  now,  a  minute  or  two  to  spare. 

Then  Judith  was  set  to  play  with  her  blocks  like  the  baby 
she  still  was,  while  Sylvia  and  Mother  had  a  lesson  in  read- 
ing. Sylvia  could  remember  the  very  sound  of  Mother's 
clear  voice  as  she  corrected  a  mistake.  They  were  reading 
a  story  about  what  happened  to  a  drop  of  water  that  fell 
into  the  brook  in  their  field;  how,  watering  the  thirsty 
cornfields  as  it  flowed,  the  brook  ran  down  to  the  river 
near  La  Chance,  where  it  worked  ever  so  many  mills  and 
factories  and  things.  Then  on  through  bigger  and  bigger 
rivers  until  it  reached  the  Mississippi,  where  boats  rode  on 
its  back;  and  so  on  down  to  the  ocean.  And  there,  after 
resting  a  while,  it  was  pumped  up  by  the  sun  and  made 
into  a  cloud,  and  the  wind  blew  it  back  over  the  land  and 
to  their  field  again,  where  it  fell  into  the  brook  and  said, 
"  Why,  how-de-do,  Sylvia — you  still  here  ?  " 

Father  had  written  the  story,  and  Mother  had  copied  it 
out  on  the  typewriter  so  it  would  be  easy  for  Sylvia  to  read. 

After  they  had  finished  she  remembered  looking  out  of 
the  window  and  watching  the  big  white  clouds  drift  across 
the  pale  bright  April  sky.  They  were  full  of  hundreds  of 
drops  of  water,  she  thought,  that  were  going  to  fall  into 
hundreds  of  other  brooks,  and  then  travel  and  work  till  they 
reached  the  sea,  and  then  rest  for  a  while  and  begin  all 


6  The  Bent  Twig 

over  again.  Her  dark  eyes  grew  very  wide  as  she  watched 
the  endless  procession  of  white  mountains  move  across  the 
great  arch  of  the  sky.  Her  imagination  was  stirred  almost 
painfully,  her  mind  expanding  with  the  effort  to  take  in  the 
new  conception  of  size,  of  great  numbers,  of  the  small  place 
of  her  own  brook,  her  own  field  in  the  hugeness  of  the  world. 
And  yet  it  was  an  ordered  hugeness  full  of  comforting  sim- 
ilarity! Now,  no  matter  where  she  might  go,  or  what 
brooks  she  might  see,  she  would  know  that  they  were  all  of 
one  family,  that  the  same  things  happened  to  them  all,  that 
every  one  ended  in  the  ocean.  Something  she  had  read 
on  a  piece  of  paper  made  her  see  the  familiar  home  field 
with  the  yellow  water  of  the  little  creek,  as  a  part  of  the 
whole  world.  It  was  very  strange.  She  tried  to  tell  Mother 
something  of  what  was  in  her  mind,  but,  though  Mother 
listened  in  a  sympathetic  silence,  it  was  evident  that  she 
could  make  nothing  out  of  the  incoherent  account.  Sylvia 
thought  that  she  would  try  to  tell  Father,  the  next  chance 
she  had.  Even  at  seven,  although  she  loved  her  mother  pas- 
sionately and  jealously,  she  was  aware  that  her  father's 
mind  was  more  like  her  own.  He  understood  some  things 
that  Mother  didn't,  although  Mother  was  always,  always 
right,  and  Father  wasn't.  She  fell  into  silence  again,  stand- 
ing by  her  mother's  knee,  staring  out  of  the  window  and 
watching  the  clouds  move  steadily  across  the  sky  doing  their 
share  of  the  world's  work  for  all  they  looked  so  soft  and 
lazy.  Her  mother  did  not  break  in  on  this  meditative  con- 
templation. She  took  up  her  sewing-basket  and  began 
busily  to  sew  buttons  on  a  small  pair  of  half-finished  night- 
drawers.  The  sobered  child  beside  her,  gazing  up  at  the  blue- 
and-white  infinity  of  the  sky,  heard  faintly  and  distantly, 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the  whirring  reverberations  of 
the  great  mystic  wheel  of  change  and  motion  and  life. 

Then,  all  at  once,  there  was  a  scraping  of  chairs  overhead 
m  Father's  study,  a  clattering  on  the  stairs,  and  the  sound 
of  a  great  many  voices.  The  Saturday  seminar  was  over. 
The  door  below  opened,  and  the  students  came  out,  Father 
at  the  head,  very  tall,  very  straight,  his  ruddy  hair  shininf 


Sylvia's  Home  7 

in  the  late  afternoon  sun,  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  over 
his  arms,  and  a  baseball  in  his  hand.  "  Come  on,  folks," 
Sylvia  heard  him  call,  as  he  had  so  many  times  before. 
"  Let's  have  a  couple  of  innings  before  you  go ! "  Sylvia 
must  have  seen  the  picture  a  hundred  times  before,  but  that 
was  the  first  time  it  impressed  itself  on  her,  the  close-cut 
grass  of  their  yard  as  lustrous  as  enamel,  the  big  pine-trees 
standing  high,  the  scattered  players,  laughing  and  running 
about,  the  young  men  casting  off  their  coats  and  hats,  the  de- 
tached fielders  running  long-legged  to  their  places.  At  the 
first  sound  of  the  voices,  Judith,  always  alert,  never  wasting 
time  in  reveries,  had  scampered  down  the  stairs  and  out  in  the 
midst  of  the  stir-about.  Judith  was  sure  to  be  in  the  middle 
of  whatever  was  going  on.  She  had  attached  herself  to 
young  Professor  Saunders,  a  special  favorite  of  the  children, 
and  now  was  dragging  him  from  the  field  to  play  horse  with 
her.  Father  looked  up  to  the  window  where  Sylvia  and 
Mother  sat,  and  called  :  "  Come  on,  Barbara !  Come  on  and 
amuse  Judith.     She  won't  let  Saunders  pitch." 

Mother  nodded,  ran  downstairs,  coaxed  Judith  over  be- 
yond first  base  to  play  catch  with  a  soft  rubber  ball ;  and  Syl- 
via, carried  away  by  the  cheerful  excitement,  hopped  about 
everywhere  at  once,  screaming  encouragement  to  the  base 
runners,  picking  up  foul  balls,  and  sending  them  with 
proud  importance  back  to  the  pitcher. 

So  they  all  played  and  shouted  and  ran  and  laughed, 
while  the  long,  pale-golden  spring  afternoon  stood  still, 
until  Mother  held  up  her  finger  and  stopped  the  game. 
"  The  baby's  awake !  "  she  said,  and  Father  went  bounding 
off.  When  he  came  back  with  the  downy  pink  morsel, 
everybody  gathered  around  to  see  it  and  exclaim  over  the 
tiny  fat  hands  and  hungry  little  rosebud  mouth.  "  He's 
starved !  "  said  Mother.  "  He  wants  his  supper,  poor  little 
Buddy !  He  doesn't  want  a  lot  of  people  staring  at  him,  do 
you,  Buddy-baby  ? "  She  snatched  him  out  of  Father's 
arms  and  went  off  with  him,  holding  him  high  over  her 
shoulders  so  that  the  sunshine  shone  on  his  yellow  hair,  and 
made  a  circle  of  gold  around  his  flushed,  sleepy  face.    Then 


8  The  Bent  Twig 

everybody  picked  up  books  and  wraps  and  note-books  and 
said,  "  Good-by,  '  Perfessor ! '  "  and  went  off. 

Father  and  Sylvia  and  Judith  went  out  in  the  garden  to 
the  hotbed  to  pick  the  lettuce  for  supper  and  then  back 
in  the  kitchen  to  get  things  ready.  When  Mother  was 
through  giving  Buddy  his  supper  and  came  hurrying  in  to 
help,  Sylvia  was  proud  that  they  had  nearly  everything 
done — all  but  the  omelet.  Father  had  made  cocoa  and 
creamed  potatoes — nobody  in  the  world  could  make  creamed 
potatoes  as  good  as  his — and  Sylvia  and  Judith  had  between 
them,  somewhat  wranglingly,  made  the  toast  and  set  the 
table.  Sylvia  was  sure  that  Judith  was  really  too  little  to 
be  allowed  to  help,  but  Father  insisted  that  she  should  try, 
for  he  said,  with  a  turn  in  his  voice  that  made  Sylvia  aware 
he  was  laughing  at  her,  "  You  only  learned  through  trying, 
all  those  many  years  ago  when  you  were  Judith's  age !  " 

Mother  put  on  one  of  her  big  gingham  aprons  and  made 
the  omelet,  and  they  sat  down  to  the  table  out  on  the 
veranda  as  they  always  did  in  warm  weather.  In  La  Chance 
it  begins  to  be  warm  enough  for  outdoor  life  in  April. 
Although  it  was  still  bright  daylight  for  ever  so  long  after 
the  sun  had  set,  the  moon  came  and  looked  at  them  palely 
over  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

After  supper  they  jumped  up  to  "  race  through  the 
dishes,"  as  the  family  catchword  ran.  They  tried  to  beat 
their  record  every  evening  and  it  was  always  a  lively  occa- 
sion, with  Mother  washing  like  lightning,  and  Father 
hurrying  to  keep  up,  Sylvia  running  back  and  forth  to  put 
things  away,  and  Judith  bothering  'round,  handing  out  dry 
dish-towels,  and  putting  away  the  silver.  She  was  allowed 
to  handle  that  because  she  couldn't  break  it.  Mother  and 
Judith  worked  in  a  swift  silence,  but  a  great  deal  of  talking 
and  laughing  went  on  between  Sylvia  and  her  father,  while 
Buddy,  from  his  high-chair  where  he  was  watching  the 
others,  occasionally  broke  out  in  a  loud,  high  crow  of  delight. 
They  did  it  all,  even  to  washing  and  hanging  out  the  dish- 
towels,  in  eleven  and  a  half  minutes  that  evening,  Sylvia 
remembered. 


Sylvia's  Home  9 

Then  she  and  Judith  went  to  sit  on  the  porch  on  the 
little  bench  Mother  had  made  them.  They  tried  to  see  who 
could  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  evening  star  every  even- 
ing. Mother  was  putting  Buddy  to  bed  and  Father  was 
starting  the  breakfast  cereal  cooking  on  the  stove.  After 
a  while  he  went  into  the  living-room  and  began  to  play 
something  on  the  piano,  something  full  of  deep,  swaying 
chords  that  lifted  Sylvia's  heart  up  and  down  as  though  she 
were  floating  on  the  water.  The  air  was  full  of  the  moist 
fragrance  of  spring.  When  the  music  held  its  breath  for 
a  moment  you  could  hear  the  bedtime  note  of  sleepy  birds 
in  the  oaks.  Judith,  who  did  not  care  much  for  music, 
began  to  get  sleepy  and  leaned  all  her  soft,  warm  weight 
against  her  big  sister.  Sylvia  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
was  consciously  aware  of  being  very  happy.  When,  some 
time  later,  the  evening  star  shone  out  through  the  trees, 
she  drew  a  long  breath.  "  See,  Judith,"  she  cried  softly 
and  began  to  recite, 

"  Star-light,  star-bright, 
First  star  I've  seen  tonight " 


She  stopped  short — it  was  Aunt  Victoria  who  had  taught 
her  that  poem,  the  last  time  she  had  come  to  see  them,  a 
year  ago,  the  time  when  she  had  brought  Sylvia  the  pink 
silk  dress,  the  only  dress-up  dress  with  lace  and  ribbons 
on  it  Sylvia  had  had  up  to  that  time.  As  suddenly  as  the 
evening  star  had  shone  out,  another  radiant  vision  flashed 
across  Sylvia's  mind,  Aunt  Victoria,  magnificent  in  her 
lacy  dress,  her  golden  hair  shining  under  the  taut  silk  of 
her  parasol,  her  white,  soft  fingers  gleaming  with  rings, 
her  air  of  being  a  condescending  goddess,  visiting 
mortals  .  .  . 

After  a  time  Mother  stepped  out  on  the  porch  and  said, 
"  Oh,  quick,  children,  wish  on  the  shooting  star." 

Judith  had  dropped  asleep  like  a  little  kitten  tired  of  play, 
and  Sylvia  looked  at  her  mother  blankly.  "  I  didn't  see  anv 
shooting  star,"  she  said. 


io  The  Bent  Twig 

Mother  was  surprised.  "  Why,  your  face  was  pointed 
right  up  at  the  spot." 

"  I  didn't  see  it,"  repeated  Sylvia. 

Mother  fixed  her  keen  dark  eyes  on  Sylvia.  "  What's 
the  matter  ? "  she  asked  in  her  voice  that  always  re- 
quired an  answer.  Sylvia  wriggled  uncomfortably.  Hers 
was  a  nature  which  suffers  under  the  categorical  question  ; 
but  her  mother's  was  one  which  presses  them  home. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  "  she  said  again. 

Sylvia  turned  a  clouded  face  to  her  mother.  "  I  was 
wondering  why  it's  not  nice  to  be  idyllic." 

"  What?  "  asked  her  mother,  quite  at  a  loss.  Sylvia  was 
having  one  of  her  unaccountable  notions. 

Sylvia  went  to  lean  on  her  mother's  knee,  looking  with 
troubled  eyes  up  into  the  kind,  attentive,  uncomprehending 
face.  "  Why,  the  last  time  Aunt  Victoria  was  here — that 
long  time  ago — when  they  were  all  out  playing  ball — she 
looked  round  and  round  at  everything — at  your  dress  and 
mine  and  the  furniture — you  know — the — the  uncomfort- 
able way  she  does  sometimes — and  she  said,  'Well,  Sylvia 
— nobody  can  say  that  your  parents  aren't  leading  you  a 
very  idyllic  life.' " 

Mother  laughed  out.  Her  rare  laugh  was  too  sudden 
and  loud  to  be  very  musical,  but  it  was  immensely  infectious, 
like  a  man's  hearty  mirth.  "  I  didn't  hear  her  say  it — but 
I  can  imagine  that  she  did.  Well,  what  of  it?  What  if 
she  did?" 

For  once  Sylvia  did  not  respond  to  another's  mood.  She 
continued  anxiously,  "  Well,  it  means  something  perfectly 
horrid,  doesn't  it?" 

Mother  was  still  laughing.  "  No,  no,  child,  what  in  the 
world  makes  you  think  that?" 

"  Oh,  if  you'd  heard  Aunt  Victoria  say  it ! "  cried  Sylvia 
with  conviction.  Father  came  out  on  the  veranda,  saying  to 
Mother,  "  Isn't  that  crescendo  superb?  "  To  Sylvia  he  said, 
as  though  sure  of  her  comprehension,  "  Didn't  you  like 
the  ending,  dear — where  it  sounded  like  the  Argonauts  all 
striking  the  oars  into  the  water  at  once  and  shouting?  " 


Sylvia's  Home  n 

Sylvia  had  been  taught  above  everything  to  tell  the  truth. 
Moreover  (perhaps  a  stronger  reason  for  frankness), 
Mother  was  there,  who  would  know  whether  she  told  the 
truth  or  not.    '*  I  didn't  hear  the  end." 

Father  looked  quickly  from  Sylvia's  face  to  her  mother's. 
"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sylvia  was  so  concerned  because  her  Aunt  Victoria  had 
called  our  life  idyllic  that  she  couldn't  think  of  anything 
else,"  explained  Mother  briefly,  still  smiling.  Father  did 
not  smile.  He  sat  down  by  Sylvia  and  had  her  repeat  to  him 
what  she  had  said  to  her  mother.  When  she  had  finished 
he  looked  grave  and  said :  "  You  mustn't  mind  what  your 
Aunt  Victoria  says,  dear.  Her  ideas  are  very  different 
from  ours." 

Sylvia's  mother  cried  out,  "  Why,  a  child  of  Sylvia's  age 
couldn't  have  taken  in  the  significance  of " 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Father,  "  that  Sylvia's  very  quick  to 
take  in  such  a  significance." 

Sylvia  remained  silent,  uncomfortable  at  being  discussed, 
vaguely  ashamed  of  herself,  but  comforted  that  Father  had 
not  laughed,  had  understood.  As  happened  so  frequently, 
it  was  Father  who  understood  and  Mother  who  did  the 
right  thing.  She  suddenly  made  an  enigmatic,  emphatic  ex- 
clamation, "  Goodness  gracious!"  and  reaching  out  her  long 
arms,  pulled  Sylvia  up  on  her  lap,  holding  her  close.  The 
last  thought  of  that  remembered  time  for  Sylvia  was  that 
Mother's  arms  were  very  strong,  and  her  breast  very  soft. 
The  little  girl  laid  her  head  down  on  it  with  a  contented 
sigh,  watching  the  slow,  silent  procession  of  the  stars. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  MARSHALLS'  FRIENDS 

Any  one  of  the  more  sophisticated  members  of  the  faculty 
of  the  State  University  at  La  Chance  would  have  stated 
without  hesitation  that  the  Marshalls  had  not  the  slightest 
part  in  the  social  activities  of  the  University;  but  no  one 
could  have  called  their  life  either  isolated  or  solitary. 
Sylvia,  in  her  memories  of  childhood,  always  heard  the  low,, 
brown  house  ringing  with  music  or  echoing  to  the  laughter 
and  talk  of  many  voices.  To  begin  with,  a  good  many  of 
Professor  Marshall's  students  came  and  went  familiarly 
through  the  plainly  furnished  rooms,  although  there  was,  of 
course,  in  each  year's  class,  a  little  circle  of  young  people 
with  a  taste  for  social  distinctions  who  held  aloof  from  the 
very  unselect  and  heterogeneous  gatherings  at  the  Marshall 
house. 

These  young  aristocrats  were,  for  the  most  part,  students 
from  the  town  itself,  from  La  Chance's  "  best  families,"  who 
through  parental  tyranny  or  temporary  financial  depression 
were  not  allowed  to  go  East  to  a  well-known  college  with 
a  sizable  matriculation  fee,  but  were  forced  to  endure  four 
years  of  the  promiscuous,  swarming,  gratuitous  education 
of  the  State  University.  All  these  august  victims  of  family 
despotism  associated  as  little  as  possible  with  the  common 
rabble  of  their  fellow-students,  and  accepted  invitations 
only  from  such  faculty  families  as  were  recognized  by  the 
inner  circle  of  the  town  society. 

The  Marshalls  were  not  among  this  select  circle.  Indeed, 
no  faculty  family  was  farther  from  it.  Every  detail  of 
the  Marshalls'  life  was  in  contradiction  not  only  to  the 
standards  and  ideals  of  the  exclusive  "  town  set,"  but  to 
those  of  their  own  colleagues.     They  did  not  live  in  the 

12 


The  Marshalls'  Friends  13 

right  part  of  town.  They  did  not  live  in  the  right  sort  of  a 
house.  They  did  not  live  in  the  right  sort  of  a  way.  And 
consequently,  although  no  family  had  more  visitors,  they 
were  not  the  right  sort  of  visitors. 

This  was,  of  course,  not  apparent  to  the  children  for  a 
good  many  years.  Home  was  home,  as  it  is  to  children. 
It  did  not  seem  strange  to  them  that  instead  of  living  in 
a  small  rented  house  on  a  closely  built-up  street  near  the 
campus  in  the  section  of  the  city  occupied  by  the  other 
faculty  families,  they  lived  in  a  rambling,  large-roomed  old 
farmhouse  with  five  acres  of  land  around  it,  on  the  edge  of 
the  West  Side.  They  did  not  know  how  heartily  this  land- 
owning stability  was  condemned  as  folly  by  the  rent-pay- 
ing professors,  perching  on  the  bough  with  calculated 
impermanence  so  that  they  might  be  free  to  accept  at  any 
moment  the  always  anticipated  call  to  a  larger  salary.  They 
did  not  know,  not  even  Sylvia,  for  many  years,  that  the 
West  Side  was  the  quite  unfashionable  part  of  town.  It 
did  not  seem  strange  to  them  to  see  their  father  sweeping 
his  third-floor  study  with  his  own  hands,  and  they  were 
quite  used  to  a  family  routine  which  included  housework 
for  every  one  of  them.  Indeed,  a  certain  amount  of  this 
was  part  of  the  family  fun.  "  Come  on,  folks !  "  Professor 
Marshall  would  call,  rising  up  from  the  breakfast  table, 
"  Tuesday — day  to  clean  the  living-room — all  hands  turn 
to !  "  In  a  gay  helter-skelter  all  hands  turned  to.  The 
lighter  furniture  was  put  out  on  the  porch.  Professor  Mar- 
shall, joking  and  laughing,  donned  a  loose  linen  overall  suit 
to  protect  his  "  University  clothes,"  and  cleaned  the  bare 
floor  with  a  big  oiled  mop ;  Mrs.  Marshall,  silent  and  swift, 
looked  after  mirrors,  windows,  the  tops  of  bookcases,  things 
hard  for  children  to  reach;  Sylvia  flourished  a  duster;  and 
Judith  and  Lawrence  out  on  the  porch,  each  armed  with  a 
whisk-broom,  brushed  and  whacked  at  the  chairs  and  sofas. 
There  were  no  rugs  to  shake,  and  it  took  but  an  instant  to 
set  things  back  in  their  places  in  the  clean-smelling,  dust- 
less  room. 

This  daily  drill,  coming  as  it  did  early  in  the  morning, 


14  The  Bent  Twig 

usually  escaped  the  observation  of  any  but  passing  farmers, 
who  saw  nothing  amiss  in  it;  but  facetiously  exaggerated 
reports  of  its  humors  reached  the  campus,  and  a  certain  set 
considered  it  very  clever  to  lay  bets  as  to  whether  the 
Professor  of  Political  Economy  would  pull  out  of  his 
pocket  a  handkerchief,  or  a  duster,  or  a  child's  shirt,  for 
it  was  notorious  that  the  children  never  had  nursemaids 
and  that  their  father  took  as  much  care  of  them  as  their 
mother. 

The  question  of  clothes,  usually  such  a  sorely  insoluble 
problem  for  academic  people  of  small  means,  was  solved  by 
the  Marshalls  in  an  eccentric,  easy-going  manner  which 
was  considered  by  the  other  faculty  families  as  nothing  less 
than  treasonable  to  their  caste.  Professor  Marshall,  it  is 
true,  having  to  make  a  public  appearance  on  the  campus 
every  day,  was  generally,  like  every  other  professor,  un- 
distinguishable  from  a  commercial  traveler.  But  Mrs. 
Marshall,  who  often  let  a  good  many  days  pass  without  a 
trip  to  town,  had  adopted  early  in  her  married  life  a  sort  of 
home  uniform,  which  year  after  year  she  wore  in  one  form 
or  another.  It  varied  according  to  the  season,  and  accord- 
ing to  the  occasion  on  which  she  wore  it,  but  it  had  certain 
unchanging  characteristics.  It  was  always  very  plain  as 
to  line,  and  simple  as  to  cut,  having  a  skirt  neither  full  nor 
scant,  a  waist  crossed  in  front  with  a  white  fichu,  and 
sleeves  reaching  just  below  the  elbow  with  white  turn-back 
cuffs.  As  Mrs.  Marshall,  though  not  at  all  pretty,  was  a 
tall,  upright,  powerfully  built  woman,  with  a  dark,  shapely 
head  gallantly  poised  on  her  shoulders,  this  garb,  whether 
short-skirted,  of  blue  serge  in  the  morning,  or  trailing,  of 
ruby-colored  cashmere  in  the  evening,  was  very  becom- 
ing to  her.  But  there  is  no  denying  that  it  was  always 
startlingly  and  outrageously  unfashionable.  At  a  time  when 
every  woman  and  female  child  in  the  United  States  had 
more  cloth  in  her  sleeves  than  in  all  the  rest  of  her  dress, 
the  rounded  muscles  of  Mrs.  Marshall's  arm,  showing 
through  the  fabric  of  her  sleeves,  smote  shockingly  upon 
the  eye  of  the  ordinary  observer,  trained  to  the  American 


The  Marshalls'  Friends  15 

habit  of  sheep-like  uniformity  of  appearance.  And  at  the 
time  when  the  front  of  every  woman's  waist  fell  far  below 
her  belt  in  a  copiously  blousing  sag,  Mrs.  Marshall's  trim 
tautness  had  in  it  something  horrifying.  It  must  be  said 
for  her  that  she  did  not  go  out  of  her  way  to  inflict  these 
concussions  upon  the  brains  of  spectators,  since  she  always 
had  in  her  closet  one  evening  dress  and  one  street  dress, 
sufficiently  approximating  the  prevailing  style  to  pass  un- 
noticed. These  costumes  lasted  long,  and  they  took  in  the 
long  run  but  little  from  the  Marshall  exchequer:  for  she 
wore  them  seldom,  only  assuming  what  her  husband  called, 
with  a  laugh,  her  "  disguise  "  when  going  into  town. 

For  a  long  time,  until  Sylvia's  individuality  began  to 
assert  itself,  the  question  of  dress  for  the  children  was 
solved,  with  similar  ease,  by  the  typical  Marshall  expedient, 
most  heartily  resented  by  their  faculty  acquaintances,  the 
mean-spirited  expedient  of  getting  along  comfortably  on 
inadequate  means  by  not  attempting  to  associate  with  people 
to  whose  society  their  brains  and  cultivation  gave  them  the 
right — that  is  to  say,  those  families  of  La  Chance  whose 
incomes  were  from  three  to  five  times  that  of  college  pro- 
fessors. The  Marshall  children  played,  for  the  most  part, 
with  the  children  of  their  neighbors,  farmers,  or  small 
merchants,  and  continued  this  humble  connection  after  they 
went  into  the  public  schools,  where  their  parents  sent  them, 
instead  of  to  "  the "  exclusive  private  school  of  town. 
Consequently  the  plainest,  simplest  clothes  made  them  in- 
distinguishable from  their  fellows.  Sylvia  and  Judith  also 
enjoyed  the  unfair  advantage  of  being  quite  unusually  pretty 
little  girls  (Judith  being  nothing  less  than  a  beauty),  so  that 
even  on  the  few  occasions  when  they  were  invited  to  a 
children's  party  in  the  faculty  circle  their  burnished, 
abundant  hair,  bright  eyes,  and  fresh,  alert  faces  made  up 
for  the  plainness  of  their  white  dresses  and  thick  shoes. 

It  was,  moreover,  not  only  in  externals  like  clothes  that 
the  childhood  of  Sylvia  and  Judith  and  Lawrence  differed 
from  that  of  the  other  faculty  children.  Their  lives  were 
untouched  by  the  ominous  black  cloud  familiar  to  academic 


1 6  The  Bent  Twig 

households,  the  fear  for  the  future,  the  fear  which  comes 
of  living  from  hand  to  mouth,  the  dread  of  l(  being  obliged 
to  hand  in  one's  resignation,"  a  truly  academic  periphasis 
which  is  as  dismally  familiar  to  most  faculty  children  as  its 
blunt  Anglo-Saxon  equivalent  of  "  losing  your  job  "  is  to 
children  of  plainer  workpeople.  Once,  it  is  true,  this  pos- 
sibility had  loomed  up  large  before  the  Marshalls,  when  a 
high-protection  legislature  objected  loudly  to  the  professor's 
unreverent  attitude  towards  the  tariff.  But  although  the 
Marshall  children  knew  all  about  this  crisis,  as  they  knew 
all  about  everything  that  happened  to  the  family,  they  had 
had  no  experience  of  the  anxious  talks  and  heartsick  con- 
sultations which  would-  have  gone  on  in  any  other  faculty 
household.  Their  father  had  been  angry,  and  their  mother 
resolute — but  there  was  nothing  new  in  that.  There  had 
been,  on  Professor  Marshall's  part,  belligerent,  vociferous 
talk  about  "  freedom  of  speech,"  and  on  Mrs.  Marshall's  a 
quiet  estimate  that,  with  her  early  training  on  a  Vermont 
farm,  and  with  the  high  state  of  cultivation  under  which 
she  had  brought  their  five  acres,  they  could  successfully  go 
into  the  truck-farming  business  like  their  neighbors.  Be- 
sides this,  they  had  the  resource,  extraordinary  among  Uni- 
versity families,  of  an  account  in  the  savings-bank  on  which 
to  fall  back.  They  had  always  been  able  to  pay  their  debts 
and  have  a  small  surplus  by  the  expedient  of  refusing  to  ac- 
knowledge a  tenth  part  of  the  social  obligations  under  which 
the  rest  of  the  faculty  groaned  and  sweated  with  martyr's 
pride.  Perfidiously  refusing  to  do  their  share  in  the  heart- 
breaking struggle  to  "  keep  up  the  dignity  "  of  the  academic 
profession,  they  were  not  overwhelmed  by  the  super- 
human difficulties  of  that  undertaking. 

So  it  happened  that  the  Marshall  children  heard  no  fore- 
bodings about  the  future,  but  only  heated  statements  of 
what  seemed  to  their  father  the  right  of  a  teacher  to  say 
what  he  believed.  Professor  Marshall  had  gone  of  his  own 
initiative  to  face  the  legislative  committee  which  was  "  in- 
vestigating "  him,  had  quite  lost  his  temper  (never  very 
securely  held  in  leash),  had  told  them  his  highly  spiced 


The  Marshalls'  Friends  17 

opinion  of  their  strictures  on  his  teaching  and  of  the  worth 
of  any  teacher  they  could  find  who  would  submit  to  them. 
Then  he  had  gone  home  and  put  on  his  overalls.  This 
last  was  rather  a  rhetorical  flourish;  for  his  cosmopolitan, 
urban  youth  had  left  him  ineradicably  ignorant  of  the 
processes  of  agriculture.  But  like  all  Professor  Marshall's 
flourishes  it  was  a  perfectly  sincere  one.  He  was  quite 
cheerfully  prepared  to  submit  himself  to  his  wife's  instruc- 
tion in  the  new  way  of  life. 

All  these  picturesque  facts,  as  was  inevitable  in  America, 
had  instantly  reached  the  newspapers,  which,  lacking  more 
exciting  news  for  the  moment,  took  that  matter  up  with 
headlined  characterizations  of  Professor  Marshall  as  a 
"  martyr  of  the  cause  of  academic  freedom,"  and  other 
rather  cheap  phrases  about  "  persecution  "  and  "  America, 
the  land  of  free  speech."  The  legislative  committee, 
alarmed,  retreated  from  its  position."  Professor  Marshall 
had  not  "  been  obliged  to  hand  in  his  resignation,"  but 
quite  the  contrary,  had  become  the  hero  of  the  hour  and 
was  warmly  complimented  by  his  colleagues,  who  hoped  to 
profit  by  an  action  which  none  of  them  would  have  dared 
to  imitate.  It  had  been  an  exciting  drama  to  the  Marshall 
children  as  long  as  it  lasted.  They  had  looked  with  pride 
at  an  abominable  reproduction  of  their  father's  photograph 
in  the  evening  paper  of  La  Chance,  and  they  had  added  an 
acquaintance  with  the  manners  of  newspaper  reporters  to 
their  already  very  heterogeneous  experience  with  callers 
of  every  variety ;  but  of  real  anxiety  the  episode  had  brought 
them  nothing. 

As  to  that  same  extraordinary  assortment  of  visitors  at 
the  Marshall  house,  one  of  the  University  co-eds  had  said 
facetiously  that  you  met  there  every  sort  of  person  in  the 
world,  from  spiritualists  to  atheists — everybody  except 
swells.  The  atheist  of  her  dictum  was  the  distinguished  and 
misanthropic  old  Professor  Kennedy,  head  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  Mathematics,  whose  ample  means  and  high  social 
connections  with  the  leading  family  of  La  Chance  made  his 
misanthropy  a  source  of  much  chagrin  to  the  faculty  ladies, 


1 8  The  Bent  Twig 

and  who  professed  for  the  Marshalls,  for  Mrs.  Marshall  in 
particular,  a  wrong-headed  admiration  which  was  inex- 
plicable to  the  wives  of  the  other  professors.  The  faculty 
circle  saw  little  to  admire  in  the  Marshalls.  The  spiritual- 
ist of  the  co-ed's  remark  was,  of  course,  poor  foolish  Cousin 
Parnelia,  the  children's  pet  detestation,  whose  rusty  clothes 
and  incoherent  speech  they  were  prevented  from  ridiculing 
only  by  stern  pressure  from  their  mother.  She  always  wore 
a  black  straw  hat,  summer  and  winter,  always  carried  a 
faded  green  shopping  bag,  with  a  supply  of  yellow  writing 
paper,  and  always  had  tucked  under  one  arm  the  curious, 
heart-shaped  bit  of  wood,  with  the  pencil  attached,  which 
spiritualists  call  "  planchette."  The  Marshall  children 
thought  this  the  most  laughable  name  imaginable,  and  were 
not  always  successful  in  restraining  the  cruel  giggles  of 
childhood  when  she  spoke  of  planchette's  writing  such  beau- 
tiful messages  from  her  long-since-dead  husband  and  chil- 
dren. Although  he  had  a  dramatic  sympathy  for  her  sorrow, 
Professor  Marshall's  greater  vivacity  of  temperament  made 
it  harder  for  him  than  for  his  wife  to  keep  a  straight  face 
when  Cousin  Parnelia  proposed  to  be  the  medium  whereby 
he  might  converse  with  Milton  or  Homer.  Indeed,  his 
fatigued  tolerance  for  her  had  been  a  positive  distaste  ever 
since  the  day  when  he  found  her  showing  Sylvia,  aged  ten, 
how  to  write  with  planchette.  With  an  outbreak  of  temper, 
for  which  he  had  afterwards  apologized  to  his  wife,  he  had 
forbidden  her  ever  to  mention  her  damn  unseemly  nonsense 
to  his  children  again.  He  himself  was  a  stout  unbeliever  in 
individual  immortality,  teaching  his  children  that  the  crav- 
ing for  it  was  one  of  the  egotistic  impulses  of  the  unregen- 
erate  human  heart. 

Between  the  two  extremes  represented  by  shabby,  crack- 
brained  Cousin  Parnelia  and  elegant,  sardonic  old  Professor 
Kennedy,  there  were  many  other  habitual  visitors  at  the 
house — raw,  earnest,  graceless  students  of  both  sexes,  touch- 
ingly  grateful  for  the  home  atmosphere  they  were  allowed  to 
enter ;  a  bushy-haired  Single-tax  fanatic  named  Hecht,  who 
worked  in  the  iron-foundries  by  day,  and  wrote  political 


The  Marshalls'  Friends  19 

pamphlets  by  night;  Miss  Lindstrom,  the  elderly  Swedish 
woman  laboring  among  the  poor  negroes  of  Flytown;  a 
constant  sprinkling  from  the  Scandinavian-Americans  whose 
well-kept  truck-farms  filled  the  region  near  the  Marshall 
home ;  one-armed  Mr.  Howell,  the  editor  of  a  luridly  radical 
Socialist  weekly  paper,  whom  Judith  called  in  private  the 
"  old  puss-cat "  on  account  of  his  soft,  rather  weak  voice 
and  mild,  ingratiating  ways.  Yes,  the  co-ed  had  been  right, 
one  met  at  the  Marshalls'  every  variety  of  person  except  the 
exclusive. 

These  habitues  of  the  house  came  and  went  with  the 
greatest  familiarity.  As  they  all  knew  there  was  no  servant 
to  answer  the  doorbell,  they  seldom  bothered  to  ring,  but 
opened  the  door,  stepped  into  the  hall,  hung  up  their 
wraps  on  the  long  line  of  hooks,  and  went  into  the  big, 
low-ceilinged  living-room.  If  nobody  was  there,  they 
usually  took  a  book  from  one  of  the  shelves  lining  the 
room  and  sat  down  before  the  fire  to  wait.  Sometimes 
they  stayed  to  the  next  meal  and  helped  wash  up  the  dishes 
afterwards.  Sometimes  they  had  a  satisfactory  visit  with 
each  other,  two  or  three  callers  happening  to  meet  together 
before  the  fire,  and  went  away  without  having  seen  any  of 
the  Marshalls.     Informality  could  go  no  further. 

The  only  occurrence  in  the  Marshall  life  remotely  ap- 
proaching the  regularity  and  formality  of  a  real  social  event 
was  the  weekly  meeting  of  the  string  quartet  which  Pro- 
fessor Marshall  had  founded  soon  after  his  arrival  in  La 
Chance. 

It  was  on  Sunday  evening  that  the  quartet  met  regularly 
for  their  seance.  Old  Reinhardt,  the  violin  teacher,  was 
first  violin  and  leader;  Mr.  Bauermeister  (in  everyday  life 
a  well-to-do  wholesale  plumber)  was  second  violin;  Pro- 
fessor Marshall  played  the  viola,  and  old  Professor  Kennedy 
bent  his  fine,  melancholy  face  over  the  'cello.  Any  one  who 
chose  might  go  to  the  Marshall  house  on  Sunday  evenings, 
on  condition  that  he  should  not  talk  during  the  music,  and 
did  not  expect  any  attention. 

The  music  began  at  seven  promptly  and  ended  at  ten.    A 


20  The  Bent  Twig 

little  before  that  time,  Mrs.  Marshall,  followed  by  any  one 
who  felt  like  helping,  went  out  into  the  kitchen  and  made 
hot  coffee  and  sandwiches,  and  when  the  last  chord  had 
stopped  vibrating,  the  company  adjourned  into  the  dining- 
room  and  partook  of  this  simple  fare.  During  the  evening 
no  talk  was  allowed  except  the  occasional  wranglings  of  the 
musicians  over  tempo  and  shading,  but  afterwards,  every 
one's  tongue,  chastened  by  the  long  silence,  was  loosened  into 
loud  and  cheerful  loquacity.  Professor  Marshall,  sitting  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  talked  faster  and  louder  than  any  one 
else,  throwing  the  ball  to  his  especial  favorite,  brilliant 
young  Professor  Saunders,  who  tossed  it  back  with  a  sure- 
ness  and  felicity  of  phrase  which  he  had  learned  nowhere 
but  in  this  give-and-take.  Mrs.  Marshall  poured  the  coffee, 
saw  that  every  one  was  served  with  sandwiches,  and  occa- 
sionally when  the  talk,  running  over  every  known  topic, 
grew  too  noisy,  or  the  discussion  too  hot,  cast  in  one  of  the 
pregnant  and  occasionally  caustic  remarks  of  which  she  held 
the  secret.  They  were  never  brilliant,  Mrs.  Marshall's  re- 
marks— but  they  were  apt  to  have  a  dry  humor,  and  almost 
always  when  she  had  said  her  brief  say,  there  loomed  out  of 
the  rainbow  mist  of  her  husband's  flashing,  controversial 
talk  the  outlines  of  the  true  proportions  of  the  case. 

After  the  homely  feast  was  eaten,  each  guest  rose  and 
carried  his  own  cup  and  saucer  and  plate  into  the  kitchen  in 
a  gay  procession,  and  since  it  was  well  known  that,  for  the 
most  part,  the  Marshalls  "  did  their  own  work,"  several  of 
the  younger  ones  helped  wash  the  dishes,  while  the  mu- 
sicians put  away  the  music-racks  and  music,  and  the  rest 
put  on  their  wraps.  Then  Professor  Marshall  stood  at  the 
door  holding  up  a  lamp  while  the  company  trooped  down 
the  long  front  walk  to  the  gate  in  the  hedge,  and  turned 
along  the  country  road  to  the  cross-roads  where  the  big 
Interurban  cars  whizzed  by. 

All  this  happened  with  that  unbroken  continuity  which 
was  the  characteristic  of  the  Marshall  life,  most  marking 
them  as  different  from  the  other  faculty  families.  Week 
after  week,  and  month  after  month,  this  program  was  fol- 


The  Marshalls'  Friends  2T 

lowed  with  little  variation,  except  for  the  music  which  was 
played,  and  the  slight  picturesque  uncertainty  as  to  whether 
old  Reinhardt  would  or  would  not  arrive  mildly  under 
the  influence  of  long  Sunday  imbibings.  Not  that  this 
factor  interfered  at  all  with  the  music.  One  of  Sylvia's  most 
vivid  childhood  recollections  was  the  dramatic  contrast  be- 
tween old  Reinhardt  with,  and  without,  his  violin.  Partly 
from  age,  and  partly  from  a  too  convivial  life,  the  old, 
heavily  veined  hands  trembled  so  that  he  could  scarcely 
unbutton  his  overcoat,  or  handle  his  cup  of  hot  coffee.  His 
head  shook  too,  and  his  kind,  rheumy  eyes,  in  their  endeavor 
to  focus  themselves,  seemed  to  flicker  back  and  forth  in 
their  sockets.  The  child  used  to  watch  him,  fascinated,  as 
he  fumbled  endlessly  at  the  fastenings  of  his  violin-case,  and 
put  back  the  top  with  uncertain  fingers.  She  was  waiting 
for  the  thrilling  moment  when  he  should  tuck  the  instrument 
away  under  his  pendulous  double  chin  and  draw  his  bow 
across  the  strings  in  the  long  sonorous  singing  chord,  which 
ran  up  and  down  Sylvia's  back  like  forked  lightning. 

This  was  while  all  the  others  were  tuning  and  scraping 
and  tugging  at  their  pegs,  a  pleasant  bustle  of  discord  which 
became  so  much  a  part  of  Sylvia's  brain  that  she  could 
never  in  after  years  hear  the  strumming  and  sawing  of  an 
orchestra  preparing  to  play,  without  seeing  the  big  living- 
room  of  her  father's  house,  with  its  low  whitewashed  ceil- 
ing, its  bare,  dully  shining  floor,  its  walls  lined  with  books, 
its  shabby,  comfortable  furniture,  the  whole  quickened  by 
the  Promethean  glow  from  the  blaze  in  the  grate  and 
glorified  by  the  chastened  passion  of  the  singing  strings. 

The  two  Anglo-Saxon  professors  were  but  able  amateurs 
of  their  instruments.  Bauermeister,  huge,  red,  and  im- 
passive, was  by  virtue  of  his  blood,  a  lifelong  training,  and 
a  musical  ancestry,  considerably  more  than  an  amateur; 
and  old  Reinhardt  was  the  master  of  them  all.  His  was 
a  history  which  would  have  been  tragic  if  it  had  happened 
to  any  but  Reinhardt,  who  cared  for  nothing  but  an  easy 
life,  beer,  and  the  divine  tones  which  he  alone  could  draw 
from  his  violin.    He  had  offered,  fifty  years  ago  in  Vienna, 


22  The  Bent  Twig 

the  most  brilliant  promise  of  a  most  brilliant  career,  a 
promise  which  had  come  to  naught  because  of  his  monstrous 
lack  of  ambition,  and  his  endless  yielding  to  circumstance, 
which  had  finally,  by  a  series  of  inconceivable  migrations, 
landed  him  in  the  German  colony  of  La  Chance,  impecu- 
nious and  obscure  and  invincibly  convinced  that  he  had 
everything  worth  having  in  life.  "  Of  vat  use  ?  "  he  would 
say,  even  now,  when  asked  to  play  in  public — "  de  moosic 
ist  all — and  dat  is  eben  so  goodt  here  mit  friends."  Or, 
"  Dere  goes  a  t'ousand  peoples  to  a  goncert — maybe  fife 
from  dat  t'ousand  lofes  de  moosic — let  dose  fife  gome  to 
me — and  I  play  dem  all  day  for  noding ! "  or  again,  more 
iconoclastically  still, — when  told  of  golden  harvests  to  be 
reaped,  "  And  for  vat  den  ?  I  can't  play  on  more  dan  von 
fioleen  at  a  time — is  it?  I  got  a  good  one  now.  And  if  I 
drink  more  beer  dan  now,  I  might  make  myself  seeck ! " 
This  with  a  prodigiously  sly  wink  of  one  heavy  eyelid. 

He  gave  enough  music  lessons  to  pay  his  small  expenses, 
although  after  one  or  two  stormy  passages  in  which  he 
treated  with  outrageous  and  unjustifiable  violence  the 
dawdling  pupils  coming  from  well-to-do  families,  he  made  it 
a  rule  to  take  no  pupils  whose  parents  employed  a  servant, 
and  confined  himself  to  children  of  the  poorer  classes, 
among  whom  he  kept  up  a  small  orchestra  which  played 
together  twice  a  week  and  never  gave  any  concerts.  And 
almost  since  the  arrival  of  the  Marshalls  in  La  Chance  and 
his  unceremonious  entrance  into  the  house  as,  walking 
across  the  fields  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  he  had  heard 
Professor  Marshall  playing  the  Doric  Toccata  on  the  newly 
installed  piano,  he  had  spent  his  every  Sunday  evening  in 
their  big  living-room. 

He  had  seen  the  children  appear  and  grow  older,  and 
adored  them  with  Teutonic  sentimentality,  especially  Sylvia, 
whom  he  called  his  "  Moonbeam  brincess,"  his  "  little 
ellfen  fairy,"  and  whom,  when  she  was  still  tiny,  he  used  to 
take  up  on  his  greasy  old  knees  and,  resting  his  violin  on  her 
head,  play  his  wildest  fantasies,  that  she  might  feel  how  it 
"  talked  to  her  bones." 


The  Marshalls'  Friends  23 

In  early  childhood  Sylvia  was  so  used  to  him  that,  like 
the  others  of  her  circle,  she  accepted,  indeed  hardly  noticed, 
his  somewhat  startling  eccentricities,  his  dirty  linen,  his 
face  and  hands  to  match,  his  shapeless  garments  hanging 
loosely  over  the  flabby  corpulence  of  his  uncomely  old  body, 
his  beery  breath.  To  her,  old  Reinhardt  was  but  the  queer 
external  symbol  of  a  never-failing  enchantment.  Through 
the  pleasant  harmonious  give-and-take  of  the  other  instru- 
ments, the  voice  of  his  violin  vibrated  with  the  throbbing 
passion  of  a  living  thing.  His  dirty  old  hand  might  shake 
and  quaver,  but  once  the  neck  of  the  fiddle  rested  between 
thumb  and  forefinger,  the  seraph  who  made  his  odd  abiding- 
place  in  old  Reinhardt's  soul  sang  out  in  swelling  tones  and 
spoke  of  heavenly  things,  and  of  the  Paradise  where  we 
might  live,  if  we  were  but  willing. 

Even  when  they  were  quite  little  children,  Sylvia  and 
Judith,  and  later,  Lawrence,  were  allowed  to  sit  up  on  Sun- 
day evenings  to  listen  to  the  music.  Judith  nearly  always 
slept  steadily ;  and  not  infrequently  after  a  long  day  of  out- 
door fun,  stupefied  with  fresh  air  and  exercise,  Lawrence, 
and  Sylvia  too,  could  not  keep  their  eyes  open,  and  dozed 
and  woke  and  dozed  again,  coiled  like  so  many  little  kittens 
among  the  cushions  of  the  big  divan.  In  all  the  intensely 
enjoyed  personal  pleasures  of  her  later  youth,  and  these 
were  many  for  Sylvia,  she  was  never  to  know  a  more  utter 
sweetness  than  thus  to  fall  asleep,  the  music  a  far-ofl  mur- 
mur in  her  ears,  and  to  wake  again  to  the  restrained,  clari- 
fied ecstasy  of  the  four  concerted  voices. 

And  yet  it  was  in  connection  with  this  very  quartet  that 
she  had  her  first  shocked  vision  of  how  her  home-life 
appeared  to  other  people.  She  once  chanced,  when  she  was 
about  eight  years  old,  to  go  with  her  father  on  a  Saturday 
to  his  office  at  the  University,  where  he  had  forgotten  some 
papers  necessary  for  his  seminar.  There,  sitting  on  the 
front  steps  of  the  Main  Building,  waiting  for  her  father, 
she  had  encountered  the  wife  of  the  professor  of  European 
History  with  her  beautiful  young-lady  sister  from  New 
York  and  her  two  daughters,  exquisite  little  girls  in  white 


24  The  Bent  Twig 

serge,  whose  tailored,  immaculate  perfection  made  Sylvia's 
heart  heavy  with  a  sense  of  the  plebeian  inelegance  of  her 
own  Saturday-morning  play-clothes.  Mrs.  Hubert,  obeying 
an  impulse  of  curiosity,  stopped  to  speak  to  the  little 
Marshall  girl,  about  whose  queer  upbringing  there  were  so 
many  stories  current,  and  was  struck  with  the  decorative 
possibilities  of  the  pretty  child,  apparent  to  her  practised 
eye.  As  she  made  the  kindly  intended,  vague  remarks  cus- 
tomarily served  out  to  unknown  children,  she  was  thinking : 
"  How  can  any  woman  with  a  vestige  of  a  woman's  in- 
stinct dress  that  lovely  child  in  ready-made,  commonplace, 
dark-colored  clothes  ?  She  would  repay  any  amount  of  care 
and  thought."  "  So  you  take  music-lessons  too,  besides 
your  school  ?  "  she  asked  mechanically.  She  explained  to 
her  sister,  a  stranger  in  La  Chance :  "  Music  is  one  of  the 
things  I  starve  for,  out  here!  We  never  hear  it  unless 
we  go  clear  to  Chicago — and  such  prices !  Here,  there  is 
simply  no  musical  feeling !  "  She  glanced  again  at  Sylvia, 
who  was  now  answering  her  questions,  fluttered  with  pleas- 
ure at  having  the  beautiful  lady  speak  to  her.  The  beauti- 
ful lady  had  but  an  inattentive  ear  for  Sylvia's  statement 
that,  yes,  lately  Father  had  begun  to  give  her  lessons  on 
the  piano.  With  the  smoothly  working  imagination  coming 
from  a  lifetime  of  devotion  to  the  subject,  Mrs.  Hubert 
was  stripping  off  Sylvia's  trite  little  blue  coat  and  unin- 
teresting dark  hat,  and  was  arraying  her  in  scarlet  serge 
with  a  green  velvet  collar — "  with  those  eyes  and  that 
coloring  she  could  carry  off  striking  color  combinations — 
and  a  big  white  felt  hat  with  a  soft  pompon  of  silk  on  one 
side — no,  a  long,  stiff,  scarlet  quill  would  suit  her  style 
better.  Then,  with  white  stockings  and  shoes  and  gloves — 
or  perhaps  pearl-gray  would  be  better.  Yes,  with  low-cut 
suede  shoes,  fastening  with  two  big  smoked-pearl  buttons." 
She  looked  down  with  pitying  eyes  at  Sylvia's  sturdy,  heavy- 
soled  shoes  which  could  not  conceal  the  slender,  shapely 
feet  within  them — "but,  what  on  earth  was  the  child  say- 
ing?  » 

" every  Sunday  evening — it's  beautiful,  and  now  I'm 


The  Marshalls'  Friends  25 

getting  so  big  I  can  help  some.  I  can  turn  over  the  pages 
for  them  in  hard  places,  and  when  old  Mr.  Reinhardt  has 
had  too  much  to  drink  and  his  hands  tremble,  he  lets  me  un- 
fasten his  violin-case  and  tighten  up  his  bow  and " 

Mrs.  Hubert  cried  out,  "  Your  parents  don't  let  you  have 
anything  to  do  with  that  old,  drunken  Reinhardt !  " 

Sylvia  was  smitten  into  silence  by  the  other's  horrified 
tone  and  hung  her  head  miserably,  only  murmuring,  after 
a  pause,  in  damning  extenuation,  "  He's  never  so  very 
drunk !  " 

"  Well,  upon  my  word ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hubert,  in  a 
widely  spaced,  emphatic  phrase  of  condemnation.  To  her 
sister  she  added,  "  It's  really  not  exaggeration  then,  what 
one  hears  about  their  home  life."  One  of  her  daughters, 
a  child  about  Sylvia's  age,  turned  a  candid,  blank  little  face 
up  to  hers,  "Mother,  what  is  a  drunken  reinhardt?"  she 
asked  in  a  thin  little  pipe. 

Mrs.  Hubert  frowned,  shook  her  head,  and  said  in  a 
tone  of  dark  mystery :  "  Never  mind,  darling,  don't  think 
about  it.  It's  something  that  nice  little  girls  shouldn't  know 
anything  about.  Come,  Margery;  come,  Eleanor."  She 
took  their  hands  and  began  to  draw  them  away  without 
another  look  at  Sylvia,  who  remained  behind,  drooping, 
ostracised,  pierced  momentarily  with  her  first  blighting  mis- 
giving about  the  order  of  things  she  had  always  known. 


CHAPTER  III 
BROTHER  AND  SISTER 

A  fuller  initiation  into  the  kaleidoscopic  divergencies  of 
adult  standards  was  given  Sylvia  during  the  visits  of  her 
Aunt  Victoria.  These  visits  were  angelic  in  their  extreme 
rarity,  and  for  Sylvia  were  always  a  mixture  of  the  beatific 
and  the  distressing.  Only  to  look  at  Aunt  Victoria  was  a 
bright  revelation  of  elegance  and  grace.  And  yet  the  talk 
around  table  and  hearth  on  the  two  or  three  occasions  when 
the  beautiful  young  widow  honored  their  roof  with  a  sojourn 
was  hard  on  Sylvia's  sensitive  nerves. 

It  was  not  merely  that  a  good  deal  of  what  was  said  was 
unintelligible.  The  Marshall  children  were  quite  accus- 
tomed to  incessant  conversations  between  their  elders  of 
which  they  could  gather  but  the  vaguest  glimmering.  They 
played  about,  busy  in  their  own  absorbing  occupations,  lend- 
ing an  absent  but  not  wholly  unattentive  ear  to  the  gabble 
of  their  elders,  full  of  odd  and  ridiculous-sounding  words 
like  Single-tax,  and  contrapuntal  development,  and  root- 
propagation,  and  Benthamism,  and  Byzantine,  and  nitroge- 
nous fertilizers,  and  Alexandrine,  and  chiaroscuro,  and 
surviving  archaisms,  and  diminishing  utility — for  to  keep 
up  such  a  flood-tide  of  talk  as  streamed  through  the  Mar- 
shall house  required  contributions  from  many  diverging 
rivers.  Sylvia  was  entirely  used  to  this  phenomenon  and, 
although  it  occasionally  annoyed  her  that  good  attention 
was  wasted  on  projects  so  much  less  vital  than  those  of  the 
children,  she  bore  it  no  grudge.  But  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  Aunt  Victoria  was  with  them,  there  was  a  different 
and  ominous  note  to  the  talk  which  made  Sylvia  acutely 
uneasy,  although  she  was  quite  unable  to  follow  what  was 
said.  This  uncomfortable  note  did  not  at  all  come  from 
mere  difference  of  opinion,  for  that  too  was  a  familiar  ele- 

26 


Brother  and  Sister  27 

ment  in  Sylvia's  world.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  her  that  every- 
body who  came  to  the  Marshall  house  disagreed  with  every- 
body else  about  everything.  The  young  men,  students  or 
younger  professors,  engaged  in  perpetual  discussions,  carried 
on  in  acrimonious  tones  which  nevertheless  seemed  not  in 
the  least  to  impair  the  good  feeling  between  them.  When 
there  was  nobody  else  there  for  Father  to  disagree  with, 
he  disagreed  with  Mother,  occasionally,  to  his  great  delight, 
rousing  her  from  her  customary  self-contained  economy  of 
words  to  a  heat  as  voluble  as  his  own.  Often  as  the  two 
moved  briskly  about,  preparing  a  meal  together,  they 
shouted  out  from  the  dining-room  to  the  kitchen  a  dis- 
cussion on  some  unintelligible  topic  such  as  the  "  anachro- 
nism of  the  competitive  system,"  so  loudly  voiced  and  so 
energetically  pursued  that  when  they  came  to  sit  down  to 
table,  they  would  be  quite  red-cheeked  and  stirred-up,  and 
ate  their  dinners  with  as  vigorous  an  appetite  as  though 
they  had  been  pursuing  each  other  on  foot  instead  of 
verbally. 

The  older  habitues  of  the  house  were  no  more  peaceable 
and  were  equally  given  to  what  seemed  to  childish  listeners 
endless  disputes  about  matters  of  no  importance.  Professor 
La  Rue's  white  mustache  and  pointed  beard  quivered  with 
the  intensity  of  his  scorn  for  the  modern  school  of  poetry, 
and  Madame  La  Rue,  who  might  be  supposed  to  be  insulated 
by  the  vast  bulk  of  her  rosy  flesh  from  the  currents  of 
passionate  conviction  flashing  through  the  Marshall  house, 
had  fixed  ideas  on  the  Franco-Prussian  War,  on  the  relative 
values  of  American  and  French  bed-making,  and  the  correct 
method  of  bringing  up  girls  (she  was  childless),  which 
needed  only  to  be  remotely  stirred  to  burst  into  showers  of 
fiery  sparks.  And  old  Professor  Kennedy  was  nothing  less 
than  abusive  when  started  on  an  altercation  about  one  of 
the  topics  vital  to  him,  such  as  the  ignoble  idiocy  of  the 
leisure-class  ideal,  or  the  generally  contemptible  nature  of 
modern  society.  No,  it  was  not  mere  difference  of  opinion 
which  so  charged  the  air  during  Aunt  Victoria's  rare  visits 
with  menacing  electricity. 


28  The  Bent  Twig 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  if  she  did  differ  in  opinion  from 
her  brother  and  his  wife,  the  children  would  never  have 
been  able  to  guess  it  from  the  invariably  restrained  tones  of 
her  fluent  and  agreeable  speech,  so  different  from  the  out- 
spoken virulence  with  which  people  in  that  house  were 
accustomed  to  defend  their  ideas.  But,  indefinable  though 
it  was  to  Sylvia's  undeveloped  powers  of  analysis,  she  felt 
that  the  advent  of  her  father's  beautiful  and  gracious  sister 
was  like  a  drop  of  transparent  but  bitter  medicine  in  a  glass 
of  clear  water.  There  was  no  outward  sign  of  change,  but 
everything  was  tinctured  by  it.  Especially  was  her  father 
changed  from  his  usual  brilliantly  effervescent  self.  In 
answer  to  the  most  harmless  remark  of  Aunt  Victoria,  he 
might  reply  with  a  sudden*  grim  sneering  note  in  his  voice 
which  made  Sylvia  look  up  at  him  half-afraid.  If  Aunt 
Victoria  noticed  this  sardonic  accent,  she  never  paid  it  the 
tribute  of  a  break  in  the  smooth  surface  of  her  own  con- 
sistent good-will,  rebuking  her  brother's  prickly  hostility 
only  by  the  most  indulgent  tolerance  of  his  queer  ways,  a 
tolerance  which  never  had  on  Professor  Marshall's  sensi- 
bilities the  soothing  effect  which  might  have  seemed  its 
natural  result. 

The  visit  which  Aunt  Victoria  paid  them  when  Sylvia  was 
ten  years  old  was  more  peaceable  than  the  one  before  it. 
Perhaps  the  interval  of  five  years  between  the  two  had 
mellowed  the  relationship;  or  more  probably  the  friction 
was  diminished  because  Aunt  Victoria  arranged  matters  so 
that  she  was  less  constantly  in  the  house  than  usual.  On 
that  occasion,  in  addition  to  the  maid  who  always  accom- 
panied her,  she  brought  her  little  stepson  and  his  tutor,  and 
with  characteristic  thoughtfulness  refused  to  impose  this 
considerable  train  of  attendants  on  a  household  so  primi- 
tively organized  as  that  of  the  Marshalls.  They  all  spent 
the  fortnight  of  their  stay  at  the  main  hotel  of  the  town, 
a  large  new  edifice,  the  conspicuous  costliness  of  which 
was  one  of  the  most  recent  sources  of  civic  pride  in  La 
Chance.  Here  in  a  suite  of  four  much-decorated  rooms, 
which  seemed  unutterably  elegant  to  Sylvia,  the  travelers 


Brother  and  Sister  29 

slept,  and  ate  most  of  their  meals,  making  their  trips  out 
to  the  Marshall  house  in  a  small,  neat,  open  carriage,  which, 
although  engaged  at  a  livery-stable  by  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith 
for  the  period  of  her  stay,  was  not  to  be  distinguished 
from  a  privately  owned  equipage. 

It  can  be  imagined  what  an  event  in  the  pre-eminently 
stationary  life  of  the  Marshall  children  was  this  fortnight. 
To  Judith  and  Lawrence,  eight  and  four  respectively,  Aunt 
Victoria's  charms  and  amenities  were  non-existent.  She  was 
for  Judith  as  negligible  as  all  other  grown-ups,  save  the  few 
who  had  good  sense  enough  to  play  games  and  go  in 
swimming.  Judith's  interest  centered  in  the  new  boy,  whom 
the  Marshalls  now  saw  for  the  first  time,  and  who  was  in 
every  way  a  specimen  novel  in  their  limited  experience  of 
children.  During  their  first  encounter,  the  well-groomed, 
white-linen-clad  boy  with  his  preternaturally  clean  face, 
his  light-brown  hair  brushed  till  it  shone  like  lacquer,  his 
polished  nails  and  his  adult  appendage  of  a  tutor,  aroused 
a  contempt  in  Judith's  mind  which  was  only  equaled  by 
her  astonishment.  On  that  occasion  he  sat  upright  in  a 
chair  between  his  stepmother  and  his  tutor,  looking  intently 
out  of  very  bright  blue  eyes  at  the  two  gipsy-brown  little 
girls  in  their  single-garment  linen  play-clothes,  swinging 
their  tanned  bare  legs  and  feet  from  the  railing  of  the  porch. 
They  returned  this  inspection  in  silence — on  Sylvia's  part 
with  the  keen  and  welcoming  interest  she  always  felt  in  new 
people  who  were  well-dressed  and  physically  attractive,  but 
as  for  Judith  with  a  frankly  hostile  curiosity,  as  at  some 
strange  and  quite  unattractive  new  animal. 

The  next  morning,  a  still,  oppressive  day  of  brazen  heat, 
it  was  suggested  that  the  children  take  their  guest  off  to  visit 
some  of  their  own  favorite  haunts  to  "  get  acquainted." 
This  process  began  somewhat  violently  by  the  instant  halt 
of  Arnold  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  house. 
"  I'm  going  to  take  off  these  damn  socks  and  shoes,"  he 
announced,  sitting  down  in  the  edge  of  a  flower-bed. 

"  Oh,  don't !  You'll  get  your  clean  suit  all  dirty !  "  cried 
Sylvia,  springing  forward  to  lift  him  out  of  the  well-tilled 


\ 


30  The  Bent  Twig 

black  loam:  Arnold  thrust  her  hand  away  and  made  a 
visible  effort  to  increase  his  specific  gravity.  "  I  hope  to 
the  Lord  I  do  get  it  dirty !  "  he  said  bitterly. 

"  Isn't  it  your  best  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  aghast.  "  Have  you 
another ? "  "I  haven't  anything  but !  "  said  the  boy  sav- 
agely. "  There's  a  whole  trunk  full  of  them !  "  He  was 
fumbling  with  a  rough  clumsiness  at  the  lacing  of  his  shoes, 
but  made  no  progress  in  loosening  them,  and  now  began 
kicking  at  the  grass.  "  I  don't  know  how  to  get  them  off !  " 
he  cried,  his  voice  breaking  nervously.  Judith  was  down  on 
her  knees,  inspecting  with  a  competent  curiosity  the  fasten- 
ings, which  were  of  a  new  variety. 

"  It's  easy! "  she  said.  "  You  just  lift  this  little  catch  up 
and  turn  it  back,  and  that  lets  you  get  at  the  knot."  As  she 
spoke,  she  acted,  her  rough  brown  little  fingers  tugging  at 
the  silken  laces.  "  How'd  you  ever  get  it  fastened,"  she 
inquired,  "if  you  don't  know  how  to  unfasten  it?" 

"  Oh,  Pauline  puts  my  shoes  on  for  me,"  explained  Ar- 
nold.    "  She  dresses  and  undresses  me." 

Judith  stopped  and  looked  up  at  him.  "  Who's  Pauline  ?  " 
she  asked,  disapproving  astonishment  in  her  accent. 

"  Madrina's  maid." 

Judith  pursued  him  further  with  her  little  black  look  of 
scorn.    "  Who's  Madrina  ?  " 

"  Why — you  know — your  Aunt  Victoria — my  step- 
mother— she  married  my  father  when  I  was  a  little  baby — 
she  doesn't  want  me  to  call  her  '  mother '  so  I  call  her 
'  Madrina.'    That's  Italian  for " 

Judith  had  no  interest  in  this  phenomenon  and  no  opinion 
about  it.  She  recalled  the  conversation  to  the  point  at 
issue  with  her  usual  ruthless  directness.  "  And  you 
wouldn't  know  how  to  undress  yourself  if  somebody  didn't 
help  you !  "  She  went  on  loosening  the  laces  in  a  con- 
temptuous silence,  during  which  the  boy  glowered  resent- 
fully at  the  back  of  her  shining  black  hair.  Sylvia  essayed 
a  soothing  remark  about  what  pretty  shoes  he  had,  but  with 
small  success.  Already  the  excursion  was  beginning  to  take 
on  the  color  of  its  ending, — an  encounter  between  the  per- 


Brother  and  Sister  31 

sonalities  of  Judith  and  Arnold,  with  Sylvia  and  Lawrence 
left  out.  When  the  shoes  finally  came  off,  they  revealed 
white  silk  half-hose,  which,  discarded  in  their  turn,  showed 
a  pair  of  startlingly  pale  feet,  on  which  the  new  boy  now 
essayed  wincingly  to  walk.  "  Ouch  !  Ouch !  OUCH  !  "  he 
cried,  holding  up  first  one  and  then  the  other  from  contact 
with  the  hot  sharp-edged  pebbles  of  the  path,  "  How  do  you 
do  it?" 

"  Oh,  it  always  hurts  when  you  begin  in  the  spring,"  said 
Judith  carelessly.  "  You  have  to  get  used  to  it.  How  old 
are  you  ? " 

"  Ten,  last  May." 

"  Buddy  here  began  going  barefoot  last  summer  and  he's 
only  four,"  she  stated  briefly,  proceeding  towards  the  barn 
and  chicken-house. 

After  that  remark  the  new  boy  walked  forward  with  no 
more  articulate  complaints,  though  his  face  was  drawn  and 
he  bit  his  lips.  He  was  shown  the  chicken-yard — full  of 
gawky,  half-grown  chickens  shedding  their  down  and 
growing  their  feathers — and  forgot  his  feet  in  the  fascina- 
tion of  scattering  grain  to  them  and  watching  their  fluttering 
scrambles.  He  was  shown  the  rabbit-house  and  allowed  to 
take  one  of  the  limp,  unresponsive  little  bunches  of  fur  in 
his  arms,  and  feed  a  lettuce-leaf  into  its  twitching  pink 
mouth.  He  was  shown  the  house-in-the-maple-tree,  a 
rough  floor  fixed  between  two  large  branches,  with  a  canvas 
roof  over  it,  ensconced  in  which  retreat  his  eyes  shone  with 
happy  excitement.  He  was  evidently  about  to  make  some 
comment  on  it,  but  glanced  at  Judith's  dark  handsome 
little  face,  unsmiling  and  suspicious,  and  remained  silent. 
He  tried  the  same  policy  when  being  shown  the  children's 
own  garden,  but  Judith  tracked  him  out  of  this  attempt  at 
self-protection  with  some  direct  and  searching  questions, 
discovering  in  him  such  ignorance  of  the  broadest  division- 
lines  of  the  vegetable  kingdom  that  she  gave  herself  up  to 
open  scorn,  vainly  frowned  down  by  the  more  naturally 
civilized  Sylvia,  who  was  by  no  means  enjoying  herself. 
The  new  boy  was  not  in  the  least  what  he  had  looked. 


32  The  Bent  Twig 

She  longed  to  return  to  the  contemplation  of  Aunt  Vifr 
toria's  perfections.  Lawrence  was,  as  usual,  deep  in  an 
unreal  world  of  his  own,  where  he  carried  forth  some 
enterprise  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  one  about 
him.  He  was  frowning  and  waving  his  arms,  and  making 
stabbing  gestures  with  his  fingers,  and  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  conversation  between  Judith  and  the  new 
boy. 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  What  do  you  know  ? "  asked  the 
former  at  last. 

"  I  can  ride  horseback,"  said  Arnold  defiantly. 

Judith  put  him  to  the  test  at  once,  leading  the  way  to 
the  stall  which  was  the  abode  of  the  little  pinto  broncho, 
left  them,  she  explained,  as  a  trust  by  one  of  Father's 
students  from  the  Far  West,  who  was  now  graduated  and 
a  civil  engineer  in  Chicago,  where  it  cost  too  much  to  keep 
a  horse.  Arnold  emerged  from  this  encounter  with  the 
pony  with  but  little  more  credit  than  he  had  earned  in  the 
garden,  showing  an  ineptness  about  equine  ways  which  led 
Judith  through  an  unsparing  cross-examination  to  the  in- 
formation that  the  boy's  experience  of  handling  a  horse 
consisted  in  being  ready  in  a  riding-costume  at  a  certain 
hour  every  afternoon,  and  mounting  a  well-broken  little 
pony,  all  saddled  and  bridled,  which  was  "  brought  round  " 
to  the  porte-cochere. 

"  What's  a  porte-cochere  ?  "  she  asked,  with  her  inimitable 
air  of  despising  it,  whatever  it  might  turn  out  to  be. 

Arnold  stared  with  an  attempt  to  copy  her  own  frank 
scorn  for  another's  ignorance.  "  Huh !  Don't  you  even 
know  that  much?  It's  the  big  porch  without  any  floor  to 
it,  where  carriages  drive  up  so  you  can  get  in  and  out 
without  getting  wet  if  it  rains.  Every  house  that's  good 
for  anything  has  one." 

So  far  from  being  impressed  or  put  down,  Judith  took  her 
stand  as  usual  on  the  offensive.  "  'Fore  I'd  be  afraid  of  a 
little  rain ! "  she  said  severely,  an  answer  which  caused 
Arnold  to  seem  disconcerted,  and  again  to  look  at  her  hard 
with  the  startled  expression  of  arrested  attention  which 


Brother  and  Sister  33 

from  the  first  her  remarks  and  strictures  seemed  to  cause 
in  him. 

They  took  the  pinto  out.  Judith  rode  him  bareback  at 
a  gallop  down  to  the  swimming  pool  and  dived  from  his 
back  into  the  yellow  water  shimmering  hotly  in  the  sun. 
This  feat  stung  Arnold  into  a  final  fury.  Without  an 
instant's  pause  he  sprang  in  after  her.  As  he  came  to  the 
top,  swimming  strongly  with  a  lusty,  regular  stroke,  and 
rapidly  overhauled  the  puffing  Judith,  his  face  shone  bril- 
liantly with  relief.  He  was  another  child.  The  petulant 
boy  of  a  few  moments  before  had  vanished.  "  Beat  you  to 
the  springboard !  "  he  sputtered  joyously,  swimming  low  and 
spitting  water  as  he  slid  easily  through  it  at  twice  Judith's 
speed.  She  set  her  teeth  and  drove  her  tough  little  body 
with  a  fierce  concentration  of  all  her  forces,  but  Arnold 
was  sitting  on  the  springboard,  dangling  his  red  and  swollen 
feet  when  she  arrived. 

She  clambered  out  and  sat  down  beside  him,  silent  for  an 
instant.  Then  she  said  with  a  detached  air,  "  You  can  swim 
better  than  any  boy  I  ever  saw." 

Arnold's  open,  blond  face  flushed  scarlet  at  this  state- 
ment. He  looked  at  the  dripping  little  brown  rat  beside 
him,  and  returned  impulsively,  "  I'd  rather  play  with  you 
than  any  girl  I  ever  saw." 

They  were  immediately  reduced  to  an  awkward  silence 
by  these  two  unpremeditated  superlatives.  Judith  found 
nothing  to  say  beyond  a  "  huh  "  in  an  uncertain  accent,  and 
they  turned  with  relief  to  alarums  and  excursions  from 
,the  forgotten  and  abandoned  Sylvia  and  Lawrence.  Sylvia 
*Vas  forcibly  restraining  her  little  brother  from  following 
Judith  into  the  water.  "  You  mustn't,  Buddy !  You  know 
we  aren't  allowed  to  go  in  till  an  hour  after  eating  and 
you  only  had  your  breakfast  a  little  while  ago !  "  She  led 
him  away  bellowing. 

Arnold,  surprised,  asked  Judith,  "  'Cept  for  that,  are 
you  allowed  to  go  in  whenever  you  want  ?  " 

"  Sure !  We're  not  to  stay  in  more  than  ten  minutes  at  a 
time,  and  then  get  out  and  run  around  for  half  an  hour  in 


34  The  Bent  Twig 

the  sun.  There's  a  clock  under  a  little  roof-thing,  nailed 
up  to  a  tree  over  there,  so's  we  can  tell." 

"  And  don't  you  get  what-for,  if  you  go  in  with  all  your 
clothes  on  this  way  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  any  clothes  on  but  my  rompers,"  said  Judith. 
"  They're  just  the  same  as  a  bathing  suit."  She  snatched 
back  her  prerogative  of  asking  questions.  "  Where  did  you 
learn  to  swim  so  ?  " 

"  At  the  seashore !  I  get  taken  there  a  month  every 
summer.  It's  the  most  fun  of  any  of  the  places  I  get  taken. 
I've  had  lessons  there  from  the  professor  of  swimming  ever 
since  I  was  six.  Madrina  doesn't  know  what  to  do  with 
me  but  have  me  take  lessons.  I  like  the  swimming  ones 
the  best.     I  hate  dancing — and  going  to  museums." 

"  What  else  can  you  do  ?  "  asked  Judith  with  a  noticeable 
abatement  of  her  previous  disesteem. 

Arnold  hesitated,  his  own  self-confidence  as  evidently 
dashed.  "  Well — I  can  fence  a  little — and  talk  French ; 
we  are  in  Paris  winters,  you  know.  We  don't  stay  in  Lyd- 
ford  for  the  winter.    Nobody  does." 

"  Everybody  goes  away  ?  "  queried  Judith.  "  What  a 
funny  town ! " 

"  Oh,  except  the  people  who  live  there — the  Ver- 
monters." 

Judith  was  more  and  more  at  a  loss.  "  Don't  you  liv& 
there  ?  " 

"  No,  we  don't  live  anywhere.  We  just  stay  places  fot 
a  while.  Nobody  that  we  know  lives  anywhere."  He  in- 
terrupted a  further  question  from  the  astonished  Judith  to 
ask,  "  How'd  you  happen  to  have  such  a  dandy  swimming- 
pool  out  of  such  a  little  brook  ?  " 

Judith,  switched  off  upon  a  topic  of  recent  and  absorbing 
interest,  was  diverted  from  investigation  into  the  odd  ways 
of  people  who  lived  nowhere.  "  Isn't  it  great ! "  she  said 
ardently.  "  It's  new  this  summer — that's  why  I  don't  swim 
so  very  well  yet.  Why,  it  was  this  way.  The  creek  ran 
through  a  corner  of  our  land,  and  a  lot  of  Father's  students 
that  are  engineers  or  something,  wanted  to  do  something 


Brother  and  Sister  35 

for  Father  when  they  graduated — lots  of  students  do,  you 
know — and  everybody  said  the  creek  didn't  have  water 
enough  and  they  bet  each  other  it  did,  and  after  Commence- 
ment we  had  a  kind  of  camp  for  a  week — tents  and  things 
all  round  here — and  Mother  cooked  for  them — camp  fires — 
oh,  lots  of  fun! — and  they  let  us  children  tag  around  as 
much  as  we  pleased — and  they  and  Father  dug,  and  fixed 
concrete — say,  did  you  ever  get  let  to  stir  up  concrete  ?  It's 
great !  " 

Seeing  in  the  boy's  face  a  blankness  as  great  as  her  own 
during  his  chance  revelations  of  life  on  another  planet,  she 
exclaimed,  "  Here,  come  on,  down  to  the  other  end,  and 
I'll  show  you  how  they  made  the  dam  and  all — they  began 

over  there  with "     The  two  pattered  along  the  edge 

hand-in-hand,  talking  incessantly  on  a  common  topic  at  last, 
interrupting  each  other,  squatting  down,  peering  into  the 
water,  pointing,  discussing,  arguing,  squeezing  the  deliciously 
soft  mud  up  and  down  between  their  toes,  their  heads  close 
together — they  might  for  the  moment  have  been  brother 
and  sister  who  had  grown  up  together. 

They  were  interrupted  by  voices,  and  turning  flushed  and 
candid  faces  of  animation  towards  the  path,  beheld  Aunt 
Victoria,  wonderful  and  queen-like  in  a  white  dress,  a  para- 
sol, like  a  great  rose,  over  her  stately  blond  head,  attended 
by  Sylvia  adoring;  Mrs.  Marshall  quiet  and  observant;  Mr. 
Rollins,  the  tutor,  thin,  agitated,  and  unhappily  responsible; 
and  Professor  Marshall  smiling  delightedly  at  the  children. 

"Why,  Arnold  Smith!"  cried  his  tutor,  too  much  over- 
come by  the  situation  to  express  himself  more  forcibly  than 
by  a  repetition  of  the  boy's  name.  "  Why,  Arnold!  Come 
here ! " 

The  cloud  descended  upon  the  boy's  face.  "  I  will  not ! n 
he  said  insolently. 

"  But  we  were  just  looking  for  you  to  start  back  to  the 
hotel,"  argued  Mr.  Rollins. 

"  I  don't  care  if  you  were ! "  said  the  boy  in  a  sullen 
accent. 

Sylvia  and  Judith  looked  on  in  amazement  at  this  scene 


36  The  Bent  Twig 

of  insubordination,  as  new  to  them  as  all  the  rest  of  the 
boy's  actions.  He  was  standing  still  now,  submitting  in  a 
gloomy  silence  to  the  various  comments  on  his  appearance, 
which  was  incredibly  different  from  that  with  which  he  had 
started  on  his  travels.  The  starch  remaining  in  a  few  places 
in  his  suit,  now  partly  dried  in  the  hot  sun,  caused  the 
linen  to  stand  out  grotesquely  in  peaks  and  mud-streaked 
humps,  his  hair,  still  wet,  hung  in  wisps  about  his  very- 
dirty  face,  his  bare,  red  feet  and  legs  protruded  from 
shapeless  knickerbockers.  His  stepmother  looked  at  him 
with  her  usual  good-natured  amused  gaze.  "  It  is  custom- 
ary, before  going  in  swimming,  isn't  it,  Arnold,  to  take 
your  watch  out  of  your  pocket  and  put  your  cuff-links  in 
a  safe-place  ?  "  she  suggested  casually. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  His  watch !  "  cried  Mr.  Rollins,  clutch- 
ing at  his  own  sandy  hair. 

Professor  Marshall  clapped  the  boy  encouragingly  on  the 
shoulder.  "  Well,  sir,  you  look  more  like  a  human  being,"' 
he  said  heartily,  addressing  himself,  with  defiance  in  hisi 
tone,  to  his  sister. 

She  replied  with  a  smile,  "  That  rather  depends,  doesn't 
it,  Elliott,  upon  one's  idea  of  what  constitutes  a  human 
being?" 

Something  in  her  sweet  voice  roused  Judith  to  an  ugly 
wrath.  She  came  forward  and  took  her  place  protectingly 
beside  her  new  playmate,  scowling  at  her  aunt.  "  We  were 
having  a  lovely  time !  "  she  said  challengingly. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  looked  down  at  the  grotesque  little 
figure  and  touched  the  brown  cheek  indulgently  with  her 
forefinger.  "  That  too  rather  depends  upon  one's  definition 
of  a  lovely  time,"  she  replied,  turning  away,  leaving  with 
the  indifference  of  long  practice  the  unfortunate  Mr.  Rol- 
lins to  the  task  of  converting  Arnold  into  a  product  possible 
to  transport  through  the  streets  of  a  civilized  town. 

Before  they  went  away  that  day*,  Arnold  managed  to  seek 
Judith  out  alone,  and  with  shamefaced  clumsiness  to  slip  his 
knife,'  quite  new  and  three-bladed,  into  her  hand.  She 
looked  at  it  uncomprehendingly.    "  For  you — to  keep,"  he 


Brother  and  Sister  37 

said,  flushing  again,  and  looking  hard  into  her  dark  eyes, 
which  in  return  lightened  suddenly  from  their  usual  rather 
somber  seriousness  into  a  smile,  a  real  smile.  Judith's 
smiles  were  far  from  frequent,  buj  the  recipient  of  one  did 
not  forget  it. 


CHAPTER  IV 
EVERY  ONE'S  OPINION  OF  EVERY  ONE  ELSE 

In  this  way,  almost  from  the  first,  several  distinct  lines 
of  cleavage  were  established  in  the  family  party  during 
the  next  fortnight.  Arnold  imperiously  demanded  a  com- 
plete vacation  from  "  lessons,"  and  when,  it  was  indolently 
granted,  he  spent  it  incessantly  with  Judith,  the  two  being 
always  out  of  doors  and  usually  joyously  concocting  what 
in  any  but  the  easy-going,  rustic  plainness  of  the  Marshall 
mode  of  life  would  have  been  called  mischief.  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, aided  by  the  others  in  turn,  toiled  vigorously  between 
the  long  rows  of  vegetables  and  a  little  open  shack  near  by, 
where,  on  a  superannuated  but  still  serviceable  cook-stove, 
she  "  put  up,"  for  winter  use,  an  endless  supply  of  the 
golden  abundance  which,  Ceres-like,  she  poured  out  every 
year  from  the  Horn  of  Plenty  of  her  garden.  Sylvia,  in 
a  state  of  hypnotized  enchantment,  dogged  her  Aunt  Vic- 
toria's graceful  footsteps  and  still  more  graceful,  leisurely 
halts ;  Lawrence  bustled  about  on  his  own  mysterious  busi- 
ness in  a  solitary  and  apparently  exciting  world  of  his 
own  which  was  anywhere  but  in  La  Chance ;  and  Professor 
Marshall,  in  the  intervals  of  committee  work  at  the  Uni- 
versity, now  about  to  open,  alternated  between  helping  his 
wife,  playing  a  great  deal  of  very  noisy  and  very  brilliant 
music  on  the  piano,  and  conversing  in  an  unpleasant  voice 
with  his  sister. 

Mr.  Rollins,  for  whom,  naturally,  Arnold's  revolt  meant 
unwonted  freedom,  was  for  the  most  part  invisible,  "  seeing 
the  sights  of  La  Chance,  I  suppose,"  conjectured  Aunt  Vic- 
toria indifferently,  in  her  deliciously  modulated  voice,  when 
asked  what  had  become  of  the  sandy-haired  tutor.  And 
because,  in  the  intense  retirement  and  rustication  of  this 

38 


Every  One's  Opinion  of  Every  One  Else     39 

period,  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  needed  little  attention  paid 
to  her  toilets,  Pauline  also  was  apparently  enjoying  an  un- 
usual vacation.  A  short  time  after  making  the  conjecture 
about  her  stepson's  tutor,  Aunt  Victoria  had  added  the  sug- 
gestion, level-browed,  and  serene  as  always,  "  Perhaps  he 
and  Pauline  are  seeing  the  sights  together." 

Sylvia,  curled  on  a  little  stool  at  her  aunt's  feet,  turned 
an  artless,  inquiring  face  up  to  her.  "  What  are  the  '  sights  ' 
of  La  Chance,  Auntie  ?  "  she  asked. 

Her  father,  who  was  sitting  at  the  piano,  his  long  ringers 
raised  as  though  about  to  play,  whirled  about  and  cut  in 
quickly  with  an  unintelligible  answer,  "  Your  Aunt  Vic- 
toria refers  to  non-existent  phenomena,  my  dear,  in  order 
to  bring  home  to  us  the  uncouth  provinciality  in  which  we 
live." 

Aunt  Victoria,  leaning  back,  exquisitely  passive,  in  one 
of  the  big,  shabby  arm-chairs,  raised  a  protesting  hand. 
"  My  dear  Elliott,  you  don't  do  your  chosen  abiding-place 
justice.  There  is  the  new  Court-House.  Nobody  can  deny 
that  that  is  a  sight.  I  spent  a  long  time  the  other  day 
contemplating  it.  That  and  the  Masonic  Building  are  a 
pair  of  sights.  I  conceive  Rollins,  who  professes  to  be 
interested  in  architecture,  as  constantly  vibrating  between 
the  two." 

To  which  handsome  tribute  to  La  Chance's  high-lights, 
Professor  Marshall  returned  with  bitterness,  "  Good  Lord, 
Vic,  why  do  you  come,  then  ?  " 

She  answered  pleasantly,  "  I  might  ask  in  my  turn  why 
you  stay."  She  went  on,  "  I  might  also  remind  you  that 
you  and  your  children  are  the  only  human  ties  I  have." 
She  slipped  a  soft  arm  about  Sylvia  as  she  spoke,  and 
turned  the  vivid,  flower-like  little  face  to  be  kissed.  When 
Aunt  Victoria  kissed  her,  Sylvia  always  felt  that  she  had, 
like  Diana  in  the  story-book,  stooped  radiant  from  a  shin- 
ing cloud. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  conversation.  Professor  Mar- 
shall faced  the  piano  again  and  precipitated  himself  head- 
long into  the  diabolic  accelerandos  of  "  The  Hall  of  the 


40  The  Bent  Twig 

Mountain-King."  His  sister  listened  with  extreme  and 
admiring  appreciation  of  his  talent.  "  Upon  my  word, 
Elliott,"  she  said  heartily,  "under  the  circumstances  it's 
incredible,  but  it's  true — your  touch  positively  improves." 

He  stopped  short,  and  addressed  the  air  above  the  piano 
with  passionate  conviction.  "  I  stay  because,  thanks  to  my 
wife,  I've  savored  here  fourteen  years  of  more  complete 
reconciliation  with  life — I've  been  vouchsafed  more  use- 
fulness— I've  discovered  more  substantial  reasons  for  exist- 
ing than  I  ever  dreamed  possible  in  the  old  life — than  any 
one  in  that  world  can  conceive !  " 

Aunt  Victoria  looked  down  at  her  beautiful  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap.  "  Yes,  quite  so,"  she  breathed.  "  Any  one  who 
knows  you  well  must  agree  that  whatever  you  are,  or  do, 
or  find,  nowadays,  is  certainly  '  thanks  to  your  wife/  " 

Her  brother  flashed  a  furious  look  at  her,  vand  was 
about  to  speak,  but  catching  sight  of  Sylvia's  troubled  little 
face  turned  to  him  anxiously,  gave  only  an  impatient  shake 
to  his  ruddy  head — now  graying  slightly.  A  little  later  he 
said :  "  Oh,  we  don't  speak  the  same  language  any  more, 
Victoria.  I  couldn't  make  you  understand — you  don't  know 
— how  should  you?  You  can't  conceive  how,  when  one  is 
really  living,  nothing  of  all  that  matters.  What  does  archi- 
tecture matter,  for  instance  ?  " 

"  Some  of  it  matters  very  little  indeed,"  concurred  his 
sister  blandly. 

This  stirred  him  to  an  ungracious  laugh.  "  As  for  keep- 
ing up  only  human  ties,  isn't  a  fortnight  once  every  five 
years  rather  slim  rations  ?  " 

"  Ah,  there  are  difficulties — the  Masonic  Building " 

murmured  Aunt  Victoria,  apparently  at  random.  But 
then,  it  seemed  to  Sylvia  that  they  were  always  speaking 
at  random.  For  all  she  could  see,  neither  of  them  ever 
answered  what  the  other  had  said. 

The  best  times  were  when  she  and  Aunt  Victoria  were 
all  alone  together — or  with  only  the  silent,  swift-fingered, 
Pauline  in  attendance  during  the  wonderful  processes  of 
dressing    or    undressing    her    mistress.      These    occasions 


Every  One's  Opinion  of  Every  One  Else     41 

seemed  to  please  Aunt  Victoria  best  also.  She  showed  her- 
self then  so  winning  and  gracious  and  altogether  magical 
to  the  little  girl  that  Sylvia  forgot  the  uncomfortableness 
which  always  happened  when  her  aunt  and  her  father  were 
together.  As  they  came  to  be  on  more  intimate  terms, 
Sylvia  was  told  a  great  many  details  about  Aunt  Victoria's 
present  and  past  life,  in  the  form  of  stories,  especially 
about  that  early  part  of  it  which  had  been  spent  with  her 
brother.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  took  pains  to  talk  to  Sylvia 
about  her  father  as  he  had  been  when  he  was  a  brilliant 
dashing  youth  in  Paris  at  school,  or  as  the  acknowledged 
social  leader  of  his  class  in  the  famous  Eastern  college. 
"  You  see,  Sylvia,"  she  explained,  "  having  no  father  or 
mother  or  any  near  relatives,  we  saw  more  of  each  other 
than  a  good  many  brothers  and  sisters  do.  We  had  nobody 
else — except  old  Cousin  Ellen,  who  kept  house  for  us  in 
the  summers  in  Lydford  and  traveled  around  with  us." 
Lydford  was  another  topic  on  which,  although  it  was  already 
very  familiar  to  her  from  her  mother's  reminiscences  of 
her  childhood  in  Vermont,  Aunt  Victoria  shed  much  light 
for  Sylvia.  Aunt  Victoria's  Lydford  was  so  different  from 
Mother's,  it  seemed  scarcely  possible  they  could  be  the  same 
place.  Mother's  talk  was  all  about  the  mountains,  the 
sunny  upland  pastures,  rocky  and  steep,  such  a  contrast  to 
the  rich,  level  stretches  of  country  about  La  Chance;  about 
the  excursions  through  these  slopes  of  the  mountains  every 
afternoon,  accompanied  by  a  marvelously  intelligent  collie 
dog,  who  helped  find  the  cows ;  about  the  orchard  full  of 
old  trees  more  climbable  than  any  others  which  have  grown 
since  the  world  began ;  about  the  attic  full  of  drying  pop- 
corn and  old  hair-trunks  and  dusty  files  of  the  New  York 
Tribune;  about  the  pantry  with  its  cookie- jar,  and  the 
"  back  room  "  with  its  churn  and  cheese-press. 

Nothing  of  all  this  existed  in  the  Lydford  of  which  Aunt 
Victoria  spoke,  although  some  of  her  recollections  were  also 
of  childhood  hours.  Once  Sylvia  asked  her,  "  But  if  you 
were  a  little  girl  there,  and  Mother  was  too, — then  you  and 
Father  and  she  must  have  played  together  sometimes  ?  " 


42  The  Bent  Twig 

Aunt  Victoria  had  replied  with  decision,  "  No,  I  never 
saw  your  mother,  and  neither  did  your  father — until  a  few 
months  before  they  were  married." 

"  Well,  wasn't  that  queer?  "  exclaimed  Sylvia — "  she  al- 
ways lived  in  Lydford  except  when  she  went  away  to  col- 
lege." 

Aunt  Victoria  seemed  to  hesitate  for  words,  something 
unusual  with  her,  and  finally  brought  out,  "  Your  mother 
lived  on  a  farm,  and  we  lived  in  our  summer  house  in  the 
village."  She  added  after  a  moment's  deliberation :  "  Her 
uncle,  who  kept  the  farm,  furnished  us  with  our  butter. 
Sometimes  your  mother  used  to  deliver  it  at  the  kitchen 
door."    She  looked  hard  at  Sylvia  as  she  spoke. 

"  Well,  I  should  have  thought  you'd  have  seen  her 
there ! "  said  Sylvia  in  surprise.  Nothing  came  to  the  Mar- 
snails'  kitchen  door  which  was  not  in  the  children's  field  of 
consciousness. 

"  It  was,  in  fact,  there  that  your  father  met  her,"  stated 
Aunt  Victoria  briefly. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  remember,"  said  Sylvia,  quoting  fluently 
from  an  often  heard  tale.  "  I've  heard  them  tell  about  it 
lots  of  times.  She  was  earning  money  to  pay  for  her  last 
year  in  college,  and  dropped  a  history  book  out  of  her 
basket  as  she  started  to  get  back  in  the  wagon,  and  Father 
picked  it  up  and  said,  '  Why,  good  Lord !  who  in  Lydford 
reads  Gibbon  ? '  And  Mother  said  it  was  hers,  and  they 
talked  a  while,  and  then  he  got  in  and  rode  off  with  her." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Victoria,  "  that  was  how  it  happened. 
. . .  Pauline,  get  out  the  massage  cream  and  do  my  face,  will 
you  ?  " 

She  did  not  talk  any  more  for  a  time,  but  when  she  began, 
it  was  again  of  Lydford  that  she  spoke,  running  along  in 
a  murmured  stream  of  reminiscences  breathed  faintly  be- 
tween motionless  lips  that  Pauline's  reverent  ministrations 
might  not  be  disturbed.  Through  the  veil  of  these  half- 
understood  recollections,  Sylvia  saw  highly  inaccurate  pic- 
tures of  great  magnificent  rooms  filled  with  heavy  old 
mahogany  furniture,  of  riotously  colored  rose-gardens,  ter- 


Every  One's  Opinion  of  Every  One  Else     43 

raced  and  box-edged,  inhabited  by  beautiful  ladies  always, 
like  Aunt  Victoria,  "  dressed-up,"  who  took  tea  under 
brightly  striped,  pagoda-shaped  tents,  waited  upon  by  slant- 
eyed  Japanese  (it  seemed  Aunt  Victoria  had  nothing  but 
Japanese  servants).  The  whole  picture  shimmered  in  the 
confused  imagination  of  the  listening  little  girl,  till  it 
blended  indistinguishably  with  the  enchantment  of  her 
fairy-stories.  It  all  seemed  a  background  natural  enough 
for  Aunt  Victoria,  but  Sylvia  could  not  fit  her  father  into  it. 

"  Ah,  he's  changed  greatly — he's  transformed — he  is  not 
the  same  creature,"  Aunt  Victoria  told  her  gravely,  speak- 
ing according  to  her  seductive  habit  with  Sylvia,  as  though 
to  an  equal.  "  The  year  when  we  lost  our  money  and  he 
married,  altered  all  the  world  for  us."  She  linked  the  two 
events  together,  and  was  rewarded  by  seeing  the  reference 
slide  over  Sylvia's  head. 

"  Did  you  lose  your  money,  too  ?"  asked  Sylvia,  astounded. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that  Aunt  Victoria  might  have 
been  affected  by  that  event  in  her  father's  life,  with  which 
she  was  quite  familiar  through  his  careless  references  to 
what  he  seemed  to  regard  as  an  interesting  but  negligible 
incident. 

"  All  but  the  slightest  portion  of  it,  my  dear — when  I 
was  twenty  years  old.    Your  father  was  twenty-five." 

Sylvia  looked  about  her  at  the  cut-glass  and  silver  uten- 
sils on  the  lace-covered  dressing-table,  at  Aunt  Victoria's 
pale  lilac  crepe-de-chine  negligee,  at  the  neat,  pretty  young 
maid  deft-handedly  rubbing  the  perfumed  cream  into  the 
other  woman's  well-preserved  face,  impassive  as  an  idol's. 

"  Why — why,   I   thought "   she   began  and  stopped,  a 

native  delicacy  making  her  hesitate  as  Judith  never  did. 

Aunt  Victoria  understood.  "  Mr.  Smith  had  money," 
she  explained  briefly.    "  I  married  when  I  was  twenty-one." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sylvia.  It  seemed  an  easy  way  out  of 
difficulties.  She  had  never  before  chanced  to  hear  Aunt 
Victoria  mention  her  long-dead  husband. 


CHAPTER  V 
SOMETHING  ABOUT  HUSBANDS 

She  did  not  by  any  means  always  sit  in  the  hotel  and 
watch  Pauline  care  for  different  portions  of  Aunt  Victoria's 
body.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  took,  on  principle,  a  drive 
every  day,  and  Sylvia  was  her  favorite  companion.  At  first 
they  went  generally  over  the  asphalt  and  in  front  of  the 
costly  and  incredibly  differing  "  mansions  "  of  the  "  resi- 
dential portion  "  of  town,  but  later  their  drives  took  them 
principally  along  the  winding  roads  and  under  the  thrifty 
young  trees  of  the  State  University  campus.  They  often 
made  an  excuse  of  fetching  Professor  Marshall  home  from 
a  committee  meeting,  and  as  the  faculty  committees  at 
that  time  of  year  were,  for  the  most  part,  feverishly  occupied 
with  the  classification  of  the  annual  flood-tide  of  Freshmen, 
he  was  nearly  always  late,  and  they  were  obliged  to  wait 
long  half-hours  in  front  of  the  Main  Building. 

Sylvia's  cup  of  satisfaction  ran  over  as,  dressed  in  her 
simple  best,  which  her  mother  without  comment  allowed 
her  to  put  on  every  day  now,  she  sat  in  the  well-appointed 
carriage  beside  her  beautiful  aunt,  at  whom  every  one 
looked  so  hard  and  so  admiringly.  The  University  work 
had  not  begun,  but  unresigned  and  harassed  professors  and 
assistants,  recalled  from  their  vacations  for  various  execu- 
tive tasks,  were  present  in  sufficient  numbers  to  animate  the 
front  steps  of  the  Main  Building  with  constantly  gathering 
and  dissolving  little  groups.  These  called  out  greetings  to 
each  other,  and  exchanged  dolorous  mutual  condolences  on 
their  hard  fate;  all  showing,  with  a  helpless  masculine 
naivete,  their  consciousness  of  the  lovely,  observant  figure 
in  the  carriage  below  them.  Of  a  different  sort  were  the 
professors'  wives,  who  occasionally  drifted  past  on  the  path- 

44 


Something  About  Husbands  45 

Aunt  Victoria  might  have  been  a  blue-uniformed  messenger- 
boy  for  all  that  was  betrayed  by  their  skilfully  casual 
glance  at  her  and  then  away,  and  the  subsequent  direct- 
ness of  their  forward  gaze  across  the  campus.  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith  had  for  both  these  manifestations  of  con- 
sciousness of  her  presence  the  same  imperturbable  smile  of 
amusement.  "  They  are  delightful,  these  colleagues  of  your 
father's !  "  she  told  Sylvia.  Sylvia  had  hoped  fervently  that 
the  stylish  Mrs.  Hubert  might  see  her  in  this  brief  apothe- 
osis, and  one  day  her  prayer  was  answered.  Straight  down 
the  steps  of  the  Main  Building  they  came,  Mrs.  Hubert  glis- 
tening in  shiny  blue  silk,  extremely  unaware  of  Aunt  Vic- 
toria, the  two  little  girls  looking  to  Sylvia  like  fairy  prin- 
cesses, with  pink-and-white,  lace-trimmed  dresses,  and  big 
pink  hats  with  rose  wreaths.  Even  the  silk  laces  in  their 
low,  white  kid  shoes  were  of  pink  to  match  the  ribbons, 
which  gleamed  at  waist  and  throat  and  elbow.  Sylvia 
watched  them  in  an  utter  admiration,  and  was  beyond 
measure  shocked  when  Aunt  Victoria  said,  after  they  had 
stepped  daintily  past,  "  Heavens !  What  a  horridly  over- 
dressed family!  Those  poor  children  look  too  absurd, 
tricked  out  like  that.  The  one  nearest  me  had  a  sweet, 
appealing  little  face,  too." 

"  That  is  Eleanor,"  said  Sylvia,  with  a  keen,  painful 
recollection  of  the  scene  a  year  ago.  She  added  doubtfully, 
'*  Didn't  you  think  their  dresses  pretty,  Aunt  Victoria  ?  " 

"  I  thought  they  looked  like  pin-cushions  on  a  kitchen- 
maid's  dressing-table,"  returned  Aunt  Victoria  more  forcibly 
than  she  usually  expressed  herself.  "  You  look  vastly  bet- 
ter with  the  straight  lines  of  your  plain  white  dresses. 
You  have  a  great  deal  of  style,  Sylvia.  Judith  is  hand- 
somer than  you,  but  she  will  never  have  any  style."  This 
verdict,  upon  both  the  Huberts  and  herself,  delivered  with 
a  serious  accent  of  mature  deliberation,  impressed  Sylvia. 
It  was  one  of  the  speeches  she  was  to  ponder. 

Although  Professor  Marshall  showed  himself  noticeably 
negligent  in  the  matter  of  introducing  his  colleagues  to  his 
sister,  it  was  only  two  or  three  days  before  Aunt  Victoria's 


46  The  Bent  Twig 

half-hours  of  waiting  before  the  Main  Building  had  other 
companionship  than  Sylvia's.  This  was  due  to  the  decisive 
action  of  young  Professor  Saunders,  just  back  from  the 
British  Museum,  where,  at  Professor  Marshall's  suggestion, 
he  had  been  digging  up  facts  about  the  economic  history  of 
the  twelfth  century  in  England.  Without  waiting  for  an 
invitation  he  walked  straight  up  to  the  carriage  with  the 
ostensible  purpose  of  greeting  Sylvia,  who  was  a  great 
favorite  of  his,  and  who  in  her  turn  had  a  romantic  admira- 
tion for  the  tall  young  assistant.  Of  all  the  faculty  people 
who  frequented  the  Marshall  house,  he  and  old  Professor 
Kennedy  were  the  only  people  whom  Sylvia  considered 
"  stylish,"  and  Professor  Kennedy,  in  spite  of  his  very  high 
connection  with  the  aristocracy  of  La  Chance,  was  so  cross 
and  depressed  that  really  his  "  style  "  did  not  count.  She 
was  now  greatly  pleased  by  the  younger  professor's  public 
and  cordial  recognition  of  her,  and,  with  her  precocious 
instinct  for  social  ease,  managed  to  introduce  him  to  her 
aunt,  even  adding  quaintly  a  phrase  which  she  had  heard 
her  mother  use  in  speaking  of  him,  "  My  father  thinks 
Professor  Saunders  has  a  brilliant  future  before  him." 

This  very  complimentary  reference  had  not  the  effect  she 
hoped  for,  since  both  the  young  man  and  Aunt  Victoria 
laughed,  exchanging  glances  of  understanding,  and  said  to 
each  other,  "  Isn't  she  delicious  ?  "  But  at  least  it  effect- 
ually broke  any  ice  of  constraint,  so  that  the  new-comer  felt 
at  once  upon  the  most  familiarly  friendly  terms  with  the 
sister  of  his  chief.  Thereafter  he  came  frequently  to  lean 
an  arm  on  the  side  of  the  carriage  and  talk  with  the  "  ladies- 
in-waiting,"  as  he  called  the  pretty  woman  and  child.  Once 
or  twice  Sylvia  was  transferred  to  the  front  seat  beside 
Peter,  the  negro  driver,  on  the  ground  that  she  could  watch 
the  horses  better,  and  they  took  Professor  Saunders  for  a 
drive  through  the  flat,  fertile  country,  now  beginning  to 
gleam  ruddy  with  autumnal  tints  of  bronze  and  scarlet  and 
gold.  Although  she  greatly  enjoyed  the  social  brilliance  of 
these  occasions,  on  which  Aunt  Victoria  showed  herself  un- 
expectedly sprightly  and  altogether  enchanting,  Sylvia  felt 


Something  About  Husbands  47 

a  little  guilty  that  they  did  not  return  to  pick  up  Professor 
Marshall,  and  she  was  relieved,  when  they  met  at  supper, 
that  he  made  no  reference  to  their  defection. 

He  did  not,  in  fact,  mention  his  assistant's  name  at  all, 
and  yet  he  did  not  seem  surprised  when  Professor  Saunders, 
coming  to  the  Sunday  evening  rehearsal  of  the  quartet, 
needed  no  introduction  to  his  sister,  but  drew  a  chair  up 
with  the  evident  intention  of  devoting  all  his  conversation  to 
her.  For  a  time  this  overt  intention  was  frustrated  by  old 
Reinhardt,  smitten  with  an  admiration  as  unconcealed  for 
the  beautiful  stranger.  In  the  interval  before  the  arrival 
of  the  later  members  of  the  quartet,  he  fluttered  around 
her  like  an  ungainly  old  moth,  racking  his  scant  English  for 
complimentary  speeches.  These  were  received  by  Aunt  Vic- 
toria with  her  best  calm  smile,  and  by  Professor  Saunders 
with  open  impatience.  His  equanimity  was  not  restored  by 
the  fact  that  there  chanced  to  be  rather  more  general  talk 
than  usual  that  evening,  leaving  him  but  small  opportunity 
for  his  tete-a-tete. 

It  began  by  the  arrival  of  Professor  Kennedy,  a  little 
late,  delayed  at  a  reunion  of  the  Kennedy  family.  He  was 
always  reduced  to  bilious  gloom  by  any  close  contact  with 
that  distinguished,  wealthy,  and  much  looked-up-to  group 
of  citizens  of  La  Chance,  and  this  evening  he  walked  into 
the  front  door  obviously  even  more  depressed  than  usual. 
The  weather  had  turned  cool,  and  his  imposingly  tall  old 
person  was  wrapped  in  a  cape-overcoat.  Sylvia  had  no  fond- 
ness for  Professor  Kennedy,  but  she  greatly  admired  his 
looks  and  his  clothes,  and  his  handsome,  high-nosed  old  face. 
She  watched  him  wrestle  himself  out  of  his  coat  as  though  it 
were  a  grappling  enemy,  and  was  not  surprised  at  the  irrita- 
bility which  sat  visibly  upon  his  arching  white  eyebrows. 
He  entered  the  room  trailing  his  'cello-bag  beside  him  and 
plucking  peevishly  at  its  drawstrings,  and  although  Aunt 
Victoria  quite  roused  herself  at  the  sight  of  him,  he  re- 
ceived his  introduction  to  her  with  reprehensible  indiffer- 
ence. He  sank  into  a  chair  and  looked  sadly  at  the  fire, 
taking  the  point  of  his  white  beard  in  his  long,  tapering 


48  The  Bent  Twig 

fingers.  Professor  Marshall  turned  from  the  piano,  where 
he  sat,  striking  A  for  the  conscientious  Bauermeister  to 
tune,  and  said  laughingly,  "  Hey  there,  Knight  of  the  Dolor- 
ous Countenance,  what  vulture  is  doing  business  at  the  old 
stand  on  your  liver?" 

Professor  Kennedy  crossed  one  long,  elegantly  slim  leg 
over  the  other,  "  I've  been  dining  with  the  Kennedy  family," 
he  said,  with  a  neat  and  significant  conciseness. 

"  Anything  specially  the  matter  with  the  predatory 
rich  ?  "  queried  Marshall,  reaching  for  his  viola-case. 

Professor  Kennedy  shook  his  head.  "  Alas !  there's  never 
anything  the  matter  with  them.  Comme  le  diable,  Us  se 
portent  toujours  b'xen." 

At  the  purity  of  accent  with  which  this  embittered  remark 
was  made,  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  opened  her  eyes,  and  paid 
more  attention  as  the  old  professor  went  on. 

"  The  last  of  my  unmarried  nieces  has  shown  herself  a 
true  Kennedy  by  providing  herself  with  a  dolichocephalic 
blond  of  a  husband,  like  all  the  others.  The  dinner  was 
given  in  honor  of  the  engagement." 

Sylvia  was  accustomed  to  finding  Professor  Kennedy's 
remarks  quite  unintelligible,  and  this  one  seemed  no  odder 
to  her  than  the  rest,  so  that  she  was  astonished  that  Aunt 
Victoria  was  not  ashamed  to  confess  as  blank  an  ignorance 
as  the  little  girl's.  The  beautiful  woman  leaned  toward  the 
morose  old  man  with  the  suave  self-confidence  of  one  who 
has  never  failed  to  charm,  and  drew  his  attention  to  her  by 
a  laugh  of  amused  perplexity.  "  May  I  ask,"  she  inquired, 
"what  kind  of  a  husband  is  that?  It  is  a  new  variety  to 
me." 

Professor  Kennedy  looked  at  her  appraisingly.  "  It's  the 
kind  most  women  aspire  to,"  he  answered  enigmatically. 
He  imparted  to  this  obscure  remark  the  air  of  passing  a 
sentence  of  condemnation. 

Sylvia's  mother  stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair  and  iooked 
at  her  husband.  He  had  begun  to  take  his  viola  from  the 
case,  but  now  returned  it  and  stood  looking  quizzically  from 
his  sister  to  his  guest.    "  Professor  Kennedy  talks  a  special 


Something  About  Husbands  49 

language,  Vic,"  he  said  lightly.  M  Some  day  he'll  make  a 
book  of  it  and  be  famous.  He  divides  us  all  into  two  kinds : 
the  ones  that  get  what  they  want  by  taking  it  away  from 
other  people — those  are  the  dolichocephalic  blonds — 
though  I  believe  it  doesn't  refer  to  the  color  of  their  hair. 
The  other  kind  are  the  white  folks,  the  unpredatory  ones 
who  have  scruples,  and  get  pushed  to  the  wall  for  their 
pains." 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  turned  to  the  young  man  beside  her. 
"It  makes  one  wonder,  doesn't  it,"  she  conjectured  pleas- 
antly, "  to  which  type  one  belongs  oneself?" 

In  this  welcome  shifting  from  the  abstract  to  the  under- 
standably personal,  old  Reinhardt  saw  his  opportunity. 
"  Ach,  womens,  beautifool  and  goot  womens !  "  he  cried  in 
his  thick,  kindly  voice.  "  Dey  are  abofe  being  types.  To 
every  good  man,  dey  can  be  only  wie  eine  blume,  so  hold 
and  schon " 

Professor  Kennedy's  acid  voice  broke  in — "  So  you're  still 
in  the  1830  Romantische  Schule  period,  are  you,  Rein- 
hardt? "  He  went  on  to  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith :  "  But  there 
is  something  in  that  sort  of  talk.  Women,  especially  those 
who  consider  themselves  beautiful  and  good,  escape  being 
either  kind  of  type,  by  the  legerdemain  with  which  they  get 
what  they  want,  and  yet  don't  soil  their  fingers  with  preda- 
tory acts." 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  was,  perhaps,  a  shade  tardy  in  ask- 
ing the  question  which  he  had  evidently  cast  his  speech  to 
extract  from  her,  but  after  an  instant's  pause  she  brought  it 
out  bravely.  "  How  in  the  world  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  asked, 
smiling,  and  received,  with  a  quick  flicker  of  her  eyel'ds, 
the  old  man's  response  of,  "  They  buy  a  dolichocephalic 
blond  to  do  their  dirty  work  for  them  and  pay  for  him  with 
their  persons." 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Marshall,  checking  herself  in  a  sud- 
den deprecatory  gesture  of  apology  towards  her  sister-in- 
law.  She  looked  at  her  husband  and  gave  him  a  silent, 
urgent  message  to  break  the  awkward  pause,  a  message 
which  he  disregarded,  continuing  coolly  to  inspect  his  finger- 


50  The  Bent  Twig 

nails  with  an  abstracted  air,  contradicted  by  the  half-smile 
on  his  lips.  Sylvia,  listening  to  the  talk,  could  make  nothing 
out  of  it,  but  miserably  felt  her  little  heart  grow  leaden  as 
she  looked  from  one  face  to  another.  Judith  and  Lawrence, 
tired  of  waiting  for  the  music  to  begin,  had  dropped  asleep 
among  the  pillows  of  the  divan.  Mr.  Bauermeister  yawned, 
looked  at  the  clock,  and  plucked  at  the  strings  of  his  violin. 
He  hated  all  talk  as  a  waste  of  time.  Old  Reinhardt's  simple 
face  looked  as  puzzled  and  uneasy  as  Sylvia's  own.  Young 
Mr.  Saunders  seemed  to  have  no  idea  that  there  was  any- 
thing particularly  unsettling  in  the  situation,  but,  disliking 
the  caustic  vehemence  of  his  old  colleague's  speech,  inter- 
posed to  turn  it  from  the  lady  by  his  side.  "  And  you're  the 
man  who's  opposed  on  principle  to  sweeping  generaliza- 
tions !  "  he  said  in  cheerful  rebuke. 

"  Ah,  I've  just  come  from  a  gathering  of  the  Clan  Ken- 
nedy," repeated  the  older  man.  "  I  defy  anybody  to  pro- 
duce a  more  successfully  predatory  family  than  mine.  The 
fortunes  of  the  present  generation  of  Kennedys  don't  come 
from  any  white-livered  subterfuge,  like  the  rise  in  the  value 
of  real  estate,  as  my  own  ill-owned  money  does.  No,  sir; 
the  good,  old,  well-recognized,  red-blooded  method  of  going 
out  and  taking  it  away  from  people  not  so  smart  as  they 
are,  is  good  enough  for  them,  if  you  please.  And  my 
woman  relatives "  He  swept  them  away  with  a  ges- 
ture.    "When  I " 

Mrs.  Marshall  cut  him  short  resolutely.  "  Are  you  going 
to  have  any  music  tonight,  or  aren't  you  ?  "  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden,  unexpected  softening  of 
his  somber  eyes.  "  Do  you  know,  Barbara  Marshall,  that 
there  are  times  when  you  keep  one  unhappy  old  misanthrope 
from  despairing  of  his  kind  ?  " 

She  had  at  this  unlooked-for  speech  only  the  most  honest 
astonishment.  "  I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about," 
she  said  bluntly. 

Judith  stirred  in  her  sleep  and  woke  up  blinking.  When 
she  saw  that  Professor  Kennedy  had  come  in,  she  did  what 
Sylvia  would  never  have  dared  do;  she  ran  to  him  and 


Something  About  Husbands  51 

climbed  up  on  his  knee,  laying  her  shining,  dark  head 
against  his  shoulder.  The  old  man's  arms  closed  around 
her.    "  Well,  spitfire,"  he  said,  f?  comment  ga  route,  eh  ?  " 

Judith  did  not  trouble  herself  to  answer.  With  a  ges- 
ture of  tenderness,  as  unexpected  as  his  speech  to  her 
mother,  her  old  friend  laid  his  cheek  against  hers.  "  You're 
another,  Judy.  You'll  never  marry  a  dolichocephalic  blond 
and  make  him  pull  the  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire  for  you, 
will  you  ?  "  he  said  confidently. 

Mrs.  Marshall  rose  with  the  exasperated  air  of  one  whose 
patience  is  gone.  She  made  a  step  as  though  to  shield  her 
husband's  sister  from  the  cantankerous  old  man.     "If  I 

hear  another  word  of  argument  in  this  house  tonight " 

she  threatened.  "  Mr.  Reinhardt,  what  are  these  people 
here  for  ?  " 

The  musician  awoke,  with  a  sigh,  from  his  dazzled  con- 
templation of  his  host's  sister,  and  looked  about  him.  "  Ach, 
yes !  Ach,  yes !  "  he  admitted.  With  a  glance  of  adoration 
at  the  visitor,  he  added  impressively  what  to  his  mind 
evidently  signified  some  profoundly  significant  tribute,  "  Dis 
night  we  shall  blay  only  Schubert !  " 

Sylvia  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief  as  the  four  gathered  in 
front  of  the  music-racks  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
tuning  and  scraping.  Young  Mr.  Saunders,  evidently 
elated  that  his  opportunity  had  come,  leaned  toward  Aunt 
Victoria  and  began  talking  in  low  tones.  Once  or  twice 
they  laughed  a  little,  looking  towards  Professor  Kennedy. 

Then  old  Reinhardt,  gravely  pontifical,  rapped  with  his 
bow  on  his  rack,  lifted  his  violin  to  his  chin,  and — an 
obliterating  sponge  was  passed  over  Sylvia's  memory.  All 
the  queer,  uncomfortable  talk,  the  unpleasant  voices,  the 
angry  or  malicious  or  uneasy  eyes,  the  unkindly  smiling 
lips,  all  were  washed  away  out  of  her  mind.  The  smooth, 
swelling  current  of  the  music  was  like  oil  on  a  wound. 
As  she  listened  and  felt  herself  growing  drowsy,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  she  was  being  floated  away,  safely  away  from  the 
low-ceilinged  room  where  personalities  clashed,  out  to  cool, 
star-lit  spaces. 


52 


The  Bent  Twig 


All  that  night  in  her  dreams  she  heard  only  old  Rein- 
hardt's  angel  voice  proclaiming,  amid  the  rich  murmur  of 
assent  from  the  other  strings : 


P 


i=¥ 


35=*S 


m^j    c-ji 


^m 


^^ 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  SIGHTS  OF  LA  CHANCE 

One  day  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  Aunt  Victoria  and 
Arnold  were  late  in  their  daily  arrival  at  the  Marshall 
house,  and  when  the  neat  surrey  at  last  drove  up,  they 
both  showed  signs  of  discomposure.  Discomposure  was  no 
unusual  condition  for  Arnold,  who  not  infrequently  made 
his  appearance  red-faced  and  sullen,  evidently  fresh  from 
angry  revolt  against  his  tutor,  but  on  that  morning  he  was 
anything  but  red-faced,  and  looked  a  little  scared.  His 
stepmother's  fine  complexion,  on  the  contrary,  had  more 
pink  than  usual  in  its  pearly  tones,  and  her  carriage  had 
less  than  usual  of  sinuous  grace.  Sylvia  and  Judith  ran 
down  the  porch  steps  to  meet  them,  but  stopped,  startled  by 
their  aspect.  Aunt  Victoria  descended,  very  straight,  her 
head  high-held,  and  without  giving  Sylvia  the  kiss  with 
which  she  usually  marked  her  preference  for  her  older 
niece,  walked  at  once  into  the  house. 

Although  the  impressionable  Sylvia  was  so  struck  by 
these  phenomena,  that,  even  after  her  aunt's  disappearance, 
she  remained  daunted  and  silent,  Judith  needed  only  the 
removal  of  the  overpowering  presence  to  restore  her  cool- 
ness. She  pounced  on  Arnold  with  questions.  "  What  you 
been  doing  that's  so  awful  bad?  I  bet  you  caught  it  all 
right !  " 

"  'Tisn't  me,"  said  Arnold  in  a  subdued  voice.  "  It's 
Pauline  and  old  Rollins  that  caught  it.  They're  the  ones 
that  ha'  been  bad." 

Judith  was  at  a  loss,  never  having  conceived  that  grown- 
ups might  do  naughty  things.  Arnold  went  on,  "  If  you'd 
ha'  heard  Madrina  talking  to  Pauline — say !  Do  you  know 
what  I  did?     I  crawled  under  the  bed — honest  I  did.     It 

53 


54  The  Bent  Twig 

didn't  last  but  a  minute,  but  it  scared  the  liver  out  o'  me." 
This  vigorous  expression  was  a  favorite  of  his. 

Judith  was  somewhat  impressed  by  his  face  and  manner, 
but  still  inclined  to  mock  at  a  confession  of  fear.  "Under 
the  bed!"  she  sneered. 

Arnold  evidently  felt  the  horror  of  the  recently  enacted 
scene  so  vividly  that  there  was  no  room  for  shame  in  his 
mind.  "  You  bet  I  did !  And  so  would  you  too,  if  you'd 
ha'  been  there.     Gee!" 

In  spite  of  herself  Judith  looked  somewhat  startled  by 
the  vibration  of  sincerity  in  his  voice,  and  Sylvia,  with  her 
quick  sympathy  of  divination,  had  turned  almost  as  pale 
as  the  little  boy,  who,  all  his  braggart  turbulence  gone, 
stood  looking  at  them  with  a  sick  expression  in  his  eyes. 

"  Was  it  in  your  room  ?  "  asked  Judith.  "  I  thought 
Pauline's  room  was  on  the  top  floor.  What  was  she  doing 
down  there  ?  " 

"  No,  it  was  in  old  Rollins'  room — next  to  mine.  I  don't 
know  what  Pauline  was  doing  there." 

"  What  did  Pauline  do  when  Aunt  Victoria  scolded  her  ?  " 
asked  Sylvia.  She  had  come  to  be  fond  of  the  pretty  young 
maid  with  her  fat,  quick  hands  and  her  bright,  warm- 
hearted smile  for  her  mistress'  little  niece.  One  day,  when 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  had,  for  a  moment,  chanced  to  leave 
them  alone,  Pauline  had  given  her  a  sudden  embrace,  and 
had  told  her :  "  At  'ome  zere  are  four  leetle  brozers  and 
sisters.  America  is  a  place  mos'  solitary !  "  "  What  did 
Pauline  do?"  asked  Sylvia  again  as  Arnold  did  not  an- 
swer. 

The  boy  looked  down.  "  Pauline  just  cried  and  cried," 
he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  liked  Pauline !  She  was  awful 
good  to  me.  I — I  heard  her  crying  afterwards  as  she  went 
away.  Seemed  to  me  I  could  hear  her  crying  all  the  way 
out  here." 

"  Did  she  go  away  ?  "  asked  Judith,  trying  to  make  some- 
thing coherent  out  of  the  story.    Arnold  nodded. 

"  You  bet  she  did.  Madrina  turned  her  right  out — and 
old  Rollins  too." 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  55 

"  Was  he  there  ?  What  was  the  matter  anyhow  ?  "  Judith 
persisted. 

Arnold  twisted  uncomfortably,  loath  to  continue  bringing 
up  the  scene.  "  I  d'n  know  what  was  the  matter.  Yes, 
old  Rollins  was  there,  all  right.  He's  gone  away  too,  the 
doggoned  old  thing — for  good.  That's  something!"  He 
added,  "Aw,  quit  talkin'  about  it,  can't  you!  Let's 
play!" 

"  It's  my  turn  to  help  Mother  with  the  tomatoes,"  said 
Judith.  "  She's  doing  the  last  of  the  canning  this  morning. 
Maybe  she'd  let  you  help." 

Arnold  brightened.  "  Maybe  she  would !  "  he  said,  add- 
ing eagerly,  "  Maybe  she'd  tell  us  another  of  the  stories 
about  her  grandmother." 

Judith  snatched  at  his  hand  and  began  racing  down  the 
path  to  the  garden.  "  Maybe  she  would !  "  she  cried.  They 
both  called  as  they  ran,  "  Mother,  oh,  Mother !  "  and  as 
they  ran,  they  leaped  and  bounded  into  the  bright  autumn 
air  like  a  couple  of  puppies. 

Sylvia's  mental  resiliency  was  not  of  such  sturdily  elastic 
stuff.  She  stood  still,  thinking  of  Pauline  crying,  and  cry- 
ing— and  started  aside  when  her  aunt  came  out  again  on 
the  porch. 

"  I  don't  find  any  one  in  the  house,  Sylvia  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  quietly.  Sylvia  looked  up  into  the 
clear,  blue  eyes,  so  like  her  father's,  and  felt  the  usual 
magic  spell  lay  hold  on  her.  The  horrid  impression  made 
by  Arnold's  story  dimmed  and  faded.  Arnold  was  always 
getting  things  twisted.  She  came  up  closer  to  her  aunt's 
side  and  took  the  soft,  smooth  ringers  between  her  two 
little  hard,  muscular  hands.  In  her  relief,  she  had  for- 
gotten to  answer.  Mrs.  Marshall- Smith  said  again, 
"  Where  are  your  parents,  dear?" 

"  Oh,"  said  Sylvia.  "  Oh  yes— why,  Father's  at  the  Uni- 
versity at  a  committee  meeting  and  Mother's  out  by  the 
garden  putting  up  tomatoes.  Judy  and  Arnold  are  help- 
ing her." 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  hesitated,  looked  about  her  rest- 


56  The  Bent  Twig 

lessly,  and  finally  raised  her  parasol,  of  a  gold-colored  silk, 
a  lighter  tone,  but  the  same  shade  as  her  rich  plain  broad- 
cloth costume  of  tan.  "  Shall  we  take  a  little  walk,  my 
dear?"  she  suggested.  "I  don't  feel  like  sitting  still  just 
now — nor  " — she  looked  down  into  Sylvia's  eyes — "  nor 
yet  like  canning  tomatoes." 

That  walk,  the  last  one  taken  with  Aunt  Victoria,  be- 
came one  of  Sylvia's  memories,  although  she  never  had  a 
vivid  recollection  of  what  they  saw  during  their  slow  ram- 
ble. It  was  only  Aunt  Victoria  whom  the  little  girl  re- 
membered— Aunt  Victoria  moving  like  a  goddess  over  their 
rough  paths  and  under  the  changing  glory  of  the  autumn 
leaves.  She  herself  was  a  brighter  glory,  with  her  shin- 
ing blond  hair  crowned  by  a  halo  of  feathery,  gold-colored 
plumes,  the  soft,  fine,  supple  broadcloth  of  her  garments 
gleaming  in  the  sunshine  with  a  sheen  like  that  of  a  well- 
kept  animal's  coat.  There  breathed  from  all  her  person  a 
faint  odor  of  grace  and  violets  and  unhurried  leisure. 

Sylvia  clung  close  to  her  side,  taking  in  through  all 
her  pores  this  lovely  emanation,  not  noticing  whether  they 
were  talking  or  not,  not  heeding  the  direction  of  their 
steps.  She  was  quite  astonished  to  find  herself  on  the 
University  campus,  in  front  of  the  Main  Building.  Aunt 
Victoria  had  never  walked  so  far  before.  "  Oh,  did  you 
want  to  see  Father?"  she  asked,  coming  a  little  to  her- 
self. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  said,  as  if  in  answer,  "  Just  sit 
down  here  and  wait  for  me  a  minute,  will  you,  Sylvia  ?  " 
moving  thereupon  up  the  steps  and  disappearing  through 
the  wide  front  door.  Sylvia  relapsed  into  her  day-dreams 
and,  motionless  in  a  pool  of  sunlight,  waited,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  passage  of  time. 

This  long  reverie  was  at  last  broken  by  the  return  of 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith.  She  was  not  alone,  but  the  radiant 
young  man  who  walked  beside  her  was  not  her  brother, 
and  nothing  could  have  differed  more  from  the  brilliantly 
hard  gaze  wftich  Professor  Marshall  habitually  bent  on  his 
sister,    than   the   soft   intentness   with   which   young    Mr. 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  57 

Saunders  regarded  the  ripely  beautiful  woman.  The 
dazzled  expression  of  his  eyes  was  one  of  the  remembered 
factors  of  the  day  for  Sylvia. 

The  two  walked  down  the  shaded  steps,  Sylvia  watching 
them  admiringly,  the  scene  forever  printed  on  her  memory, 
and  emerged  into  the  pool  of  sunshine  where  she  sat,  swing- 
ing her  legs  from  the  bench.  They  stood  there  for  some 
minutes,  talking  together  in  low  tones.  Sylvia,  absorbed 
in  watching  the  play  of  light  on  Aunt  Victoria's  smooth 
cheek,  heard  but  a  few  words  of  what  passed  between  them. 
She  had  a  vague  impression  that  Professor  Saunders  con- 
tinually began  sentences  starting  firmly  with  "  But,"  and 
ending  somehow  on  quite  another  note.  She  felt  dimly 
that  Aunt  Victoria  was  less  calmly  passive  than  usual  in 
a  conversation,  that  it  was  not  only  the  enchanting  rising 
and  falling  inflections  of  her  voice  which  talked,  but  her 
eyes,  her  arms,  her  whole  self.  Once  she  laid  her  hand 
for  an  instant  on  Professor  Saunders'  arm. 

More  than  that  Sylvia  could  not  remember,  even  when 
she  was  asked  later  to  repeat  as  much  as  she  could  of  what 
she  had  heard.  She  was  resolving  when  she  was  grown-up 
to  have  a  ruffle  of  creamy  lace  falling  away  from  her  neck 
and  wrists  as  Aunt  Victoria  did.  She  had  not  only  for- 
gotten Arnold's  story,  she  had  forgotten  that  such  a  boy 
existed.  She  was  living  in  a  world  all  made  up  of  radiance 
and  bloom,  lace  and  sunshine  and  velvet,  and  bright  hair 
and  gleaming  cloth  and  smooth  voices  and  the  smell  of 
violets. 

After  a  time  she  was  aware  that  Professor  Saunders 
shook  hands  and  turned  back  up  the  steps.  Aunt  Victoria 
began  to  move  with  her  slow  grace  along  the  road  towards 
home,  and  Sylvia  to  follow,  soaking  herself  in  an  impres- 
sion of  supreme  suavity. 

When,  after  the  walk  through  the  beech-woods,  they 
reached  the  edge  of  the  Marshall  field,  they  saw  a  stiff 
plume  of  blue  smoke  stand  up  over  the  shack  by  the  gar- 
den and,  as  they  approached,  heard  a  murmur  of  voices. 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  stopped,  furled  her  parasol,  and  sur- 


58  The  Bent  Twig 

veyed  the  scene  within.  Her  sister-in-law,  enveloped  in  a 
large  blue  apron,  by  no  means  fresh,  sat  beside  a  roughly 
built  table,  peeling  tomatoes,  her  brown  stained  fingers 
moving  with  the  rapidity  of  a  prestidigitator's.  Judith 
stood  beside  her,  also  attacking  the  pile  of  crimson  fruit, 
endeavoring  in  vain  to  emulate  her  mother's  speed.  Over 
the  hot,  rusty  stove  hung  Arnold,  red-faced  and  bright- 
eyed,  armed  with  a  long,  wooden  spatula  which  he  con- 
tinually dug  into  the  steaming  contents  of  an  enormous 
white-lined  kettle.  As,  at  the  arrival  of  the  new-comers, 
Mrs.  Marshall's  voice  stopped,  he  looked  around  and 
frowned  impatiently  at  his  stepmother.  "  She's  just  got 
to  the  excitin'  part,"  he  said  severely,  and  to  the  raconteur 
eagerly,  " 'N'en  what?" 

Mrs.  Marshall  looked  up  at  her  husband's  sister,  smiled, 
and  went  on, — Sylvia  recognized  the  story  as  one  of  her 
own  old  favorites.  "  Well,  it  was  very  early  dawn  when  she 
had  to  go  over  to  the  neighbor's  to  borrow  some  medicine 
for  her  father,  who  kept  getting  sicker  all  the  time.  As  she 
hurried  along  across  the  meadow  towards  the  stile,  she 
kept  wondering,  in  spite  of  herself,  if  there  was  any  truth 
in  what  Nat  had  said  about  having  seen  bear  tracks  near 
the  house  the  day  before.  When  she  got  to  the  stile  she 
ran  up  the  steps — and  on  the  top  one  she  stood  still,  for 

there "     She  made  a  dramatic  pause  and  reached  for 

another  tray  of  tomatoes.  Arnold  stopped  stirring  the  pot 
and  stood  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  narrator,  the 
spatula  dripping  tomato- juice  all  along  his  white  trousers. 
"  There  on  the  other  side,  looking  up  at  her,  was  a  bear— 
a  big  black  bear." 

Arnold's  mouth  dropped  open  and  his  eyes  widened. 

"  My  grandmother  was  dreadfully  frightened.  She  was 
only  seventeen,  and  she  hadn't  any  kind  of  a  weapon,  not 
so  much  as  a  little  stick  with  her.  Her  first  idea  was  to 
turn  and  run  as  fast  as  she  could,  back  home.  But  she 
remembered  how  sick  her  father  was,  and  how  much  he 
needed  the  medicine;  and  then  besides,  she  used  to  say,  all 
of  a  sudden  it  made  her  angry,  all  over,  to  have  that  great 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  59 

stupid  animal  get  in  her  way.  She  always  said  that  nothing 
*  got  her  mad  up '  like  feeling  afraid.  So  what  do  you 
suppose  she  did  ?  " 

Arnold  could  only  shake  his  head  silently  in  an  ecstasy 
of  impatience  for  the  story  to  continue.  Judith  and  Sylvia 
smiled  at  each  other  with  the  insufferable  complacence  of 
auditors  who  know  the  end  by  heart. 

"  She  just  pointed  her  finger  at  the  bear,  and  she  said  in 
a  loud,  harsh  voice :  '  Shame !  Shame  !  Shame  on  you  ! 
For  sha-a-ame ! '  She'd  taught  district  school,  you  know, 
and  had  had  lots  of  practice  saying  that  to  children  who 
had  been  bad.  The  bear  looked  up  at  her  hard  for  a 
minute,  then  dropped  his  head  and  began  to  walk  slowly 
away.  Grandmother  always  said,  '  The  great  lummox  lum- 
bered off  into  the  bushes  like  a  gawk  of  a  boy  who's  been 
caught  in  mischief/  She  waited  just  a  minute  and  then 
ran  like  lightning  along  the  path  through  the  woods  to 
the  neighbors  and  got  the  medicine.,, 

The  story  was  evidently  over,  the  last  tomato  was 
peeled.  Mrs.  Marshall  rose,  wiping  her  stained  and  drip- 
ping hands  on  her  apron,  and  went  to  the  stove.  Ar- 
nold started  as  if  coming  out  of  a  dream  and  looked 
about  him  with  wondering  eyes.  "  Well,  what-d'you-think- 
o'-that? "  he  commented,  all  in  one  breath.  "  Say, 
Mother,"  he  went  on,  looking  up  at  her  with  trusting  eyes, 
searching  the  quiet  face,  "what  do  you  suppose  made  the 
bear  go  away?  You  wouldn't  think  a  little  thing  like  that 
would  scare  a  bear!" 

Mrs.  Marshall  began  dipping  the  hot,  stewed  tomatoes 
into  the  glass  jars  ready  in  a  big  pan  of  boiling  water  on 
the  back  of  the  stove.  The  steam  rose  up,  like  a  cloud,  into 
her  face,  which  began  to  turn  red  and  to  glisten  with 
perspiration.  "  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  it  really  frightened  the 
bear,"  she  said  moderately,  refraining  from  the  dramatic 
note  of  completeness  which  her  husband,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, gave  to  everything  he  touched,  and  adding  instead  the 
pungent,  homely  savor  of  reality,  which  none  relished  more 
than  Sylvia  and  her  father,  incapable  themselves  of  achiev- 


60  The  Bent  Twig 

ing  it.  "  'Most  likely  the  bear  would  have  gone  away  of 
his  own  accord  anyhow.  They  don't  attack  people  unless 
they're  stirred  up."  Arnold  bit  deeply  into  the  solidity  of 
this  unexaggerated  presentation,  and  was  silent  for.  a  mo- 
ment, saying  then :  "  Well,  anyhow,  she  didn't  know  he'd  go 
away !     She  was  a  sport,  all  right !  " 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall,  dipping  and 
steaming,  and  wiping  away  the  perspiration,  which  ran 
down  in  drops  to  the  end  of  her  large,  shapely  nose. 
"  Yes,  my  grandmother  was  a  sport,  all  right."  The  acrid 
smell  of  hot,  cooking  tomatoes  filled  the  shed  and  spread 
to  the  edge  where  Sylvia  and  her  aunt  stood,  still  a  little 
aloof.  Although  it  bore  no  resemblance  to  the  odor  of 
violets,  it  could  not  be  called  a  disgusting  smell :  it  was  the 
sort  of  smell  which  is  quite  agreeable  when  one  is  very 
hungry.  But  Sylvia  was  not  hungry  at  all.  She  stepped 
back  involuntarily.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  on  the  contrary, 
advanced  a  step  or  so,  until  she  stood  close  to  her  sister- 
in-law.  "  Barbara,  I'd  like  to  see  you  a  few  minutes  with- 
out the  children,"  she  remarked  in  the  neutral  tone  she  al- 
ways had  for  her  brother's  wife.  "  A  rather  unpleasant 
occurrence — I'm  in  something  of  a  quandary." 

Mrs.  Marshall  nodded.  "  All  right,"  she  agreed.  "  Scat- 
ter out  of  here,  you  children!  Go  and  let  out  the  hens, 
and  give  them  some  water !  " 

Arnold  needed  no  second  bidding,  reminded  by  his  step- 
mother's words  of  his  experiences  of  the  morning.  He 
and  Judith  scampered  away  in  a  suddenly  improvised  race 
to  see  who  would  reach  the  chicken-house  first.  Sylvia 
went  more  slowly,  looking  back  once  or  twice  at  the  pic- 
ture made  by  the  two  women,  so  dramatically  contrasted — 
her  mother,  active,  very  upright,  wrapped  in  a  crumpled 
and  stained  apron,  her  dark  hair  bound  closely  about  her 
round  head,  her  moist,  red  face  and  steady  eyes  turned 
attentively  upon  the  radiant  creature  beside  her,  cool  and 
detached,  leaning  willow-like  on  the  slender  wand  of  the 
gold-colored  parasol. 

Professor  Marshall  chanced  to  be  late  that  day  in  com- 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  61 

ing  home  for  luncheon,  and  Aunt  Victoria  and  Arnold  had 
returned  to  the  hotel  without  seeing  him.  His  wife  re- 
marked that  Victoria  had  asked  her  to  tell  him  something, 
but,  acting  on  her  inviolable  principle  that  nothing  must  in- 
terfere with  the  cheerful  peace  of  mealtime,  said  nothing 
more  to  him  until  after  they  had  finished  the  big  plate 
of  purple  grapes  from  her  garden,  with  which  the  meal 
ended. 

Then  Judith  vanished  out  to  the  shop,  where  she  was 
constructing  a  rabbit-house  for  the  latest  family.  Sylvia 
took  Lawrence,  yawning  and  rubbing  his  eyes,  but  fighting 
desperately  against  his  sleepiness,  upstairs  for  his  nap. 
When  this  task  fell  to  Judith's  lot  it  was  despatched  with 
business-like  promptness!,  but  Lawrence  had  early  dis- 
covered a  temperamental  difference  between  his  two  sisters, 
and  Sylvia  was  seldom  allowed  to  leave  the  small  bed  until 
she  had  paid  tribute  to  her  ever-present  desire  to  please, 
in  the  shape  of  a  story  or  a  song.  On  that  day  Buddy  was 
more  exacting  than  usual.  Sylvia  told  the  story  of  Cinder- 
ella and  sang,  "  A  Frog  He  Would  a- Wooing  Go,"  twice 
through,  before  the  little  boy's  eyes  began  to  droop.  Even 
then,  the  clutch  of  his  warm,  moist  fingers  about  her  hand 
did  not  relax.  When  she  tried  to  slip  her  fingers  out  of  his, 
his  eyelids  fluttered  open  and  he  tightened  his  grasp  with  a 
wilful  frown.  So  she  sat  still  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  wait- 
ing till  he  should  be  really  asleep. 

From  the  dining-room  below  her  rose  the  sound  of 
voices,  or  rather  of  one  voice — her  father's.  She  wondered 
why  it  sounded  so  angry,  and  then,  mixed  with  some  un- 
intelligible phrases — "  turned  out  on  the  street,  in  trouble — 
in  a  foreign  land — Good  God !  "  she  caught  Pauline's  name. 
Oh  yes,  that  must  be  the  trouble.  Mother  was  telling 
Father  about  Pauline — whatever  it  was  she  had  done — and 
he  was  as  mad  about  it  as  Aunt  Victoria  had  been.  If 
Aunt  Victoria's  voice  had  sounded  like  that,  she  didn't 
wonder  that  Arnold  had  hidden  under  the  bed.  If  she  could 
have  moved,  she,  too,  would  have  run  away,  although  the 
idea  that  she  ought  to  do  so  did  not  occur  to  her.    There 


62  The  Bent  Twig 

had  been  no  secrets  in  that  house.  The  talk  had  always 
been  for  all  to  hear  who  would. 

But  when  she  tried  again  to  slip  her  hand  away  from 
Buddy's  the  little  boy  pulled  at  it  hard,  and  half  opening 
his  eyes,  said  sleepily,  "  Sylvie  stay  with  Buddy — Sylvie 

stay "     Sylvia   yielded   weakly,   said :   "  Yes — sh !    sh  I 

Sister'll  stay.     Go  to  sleep,  Buddy." 

From  below  came  the  angry  voice,  quite  loud  now,  so 
that  she  caught  every  queer-sounding  word—"  righteous 
indignation  indeed!  What  else  did  she  do,  I'd  like  to 
know,  when  she  wanted  money.  The  only  difference  was 
that  she  was  cold-blooded  enough  to  extract  a  legal  status 
from  the  old  reprobate  she  accosted." 

Sylvia  heard  her  mother's  voice  saying  coldly,  "  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  to  use  such  a  word ! "  and  her  father 
retort,  "  It's  the  only  word  that  expresses  it !  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  that  she  cared  no  more  for  Ephraim  Smith 
than  for  the  first  man  she  might  have  solicited  on  the  street 
— nor  so  much!  God!  It  makes  me  sick  to  look  at  her 
and  think  of  the  price  she  paid  for  her  present  damn 
Olympian  serenity." 

Sylvia  heard  her  mother  begin  to  clear  off  the  table. 
There  was  a  rattle  of  dishes  through  which  her  voice  rose 
impatiently.  "  Oh,  Elliott,  why  be  so  melodramatic  always, 
and  spoil  so  much  good  language !  She  did  only  what  every 
girl  brought  up  as  she  was,  would  have  done.  And,  any- 
how, are  you  so  very  sure  that  in  your  heart  you're  not  so 
awfully  hard  on  her  because  you're  envious  of  that  very 
prosperity  ? " 

He  admitted,  with  acrimony,  the  justice  of  this  thrust 
"  Very  likely.  Very  likely ! — everything  base  and  mean  in 
me,  that  you  keep  down,  springs  to  life  in  me  at  her  touch, 
I  dare  say  I  do  envy  her — I'm  quite  capable  of  that — am 
I  not  her  brother,  with  the  same " 

Mrs.  Marshall  said  hastily :  "  Hush !  Hush !  Here's 
Judith.     For  Heaven's  sake  don't  let  the  child  hear  you ! " 

For  the  first  time  the  idea  penetrated  Sylvia's  head  that 
she  ought  not  to  have  listened.     Buddy  was  now  soundly 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  63 

asleep :  she  detached  her  hand  from  his,  and  went  soberly 
along  the  hall  into  her  own  room.  She  did  not  want  to  see 
her  father  just  then. 

A  long  time  after,  Mother  called  up  to  say  that  Aunt 
Victoria  had  come  for  her  afternoon  drive,  and  to  leave 
Arnold.  Sylvia  opened  the  door  a  crack  and  asked, 
"Where's  Father?" 

"  Oh,  gone  back  to  the  University  this  long  time,"  an- 
swered her  mother  in  her  usual  tone.  Sylvia  came  down 
the  stairs  slowly  and  took  her  seat  in  the  carriage  beside 
Aunt  Victoria  with  none  of  her  usual  demonstrative  show 
of  pleasure. 

"  Don't  you  like  my  dress  ? "  asked  Aunt  Victoria,  as 
they  drove  away.  "  You  don't  even  notice  it,  and  I  put 
it  on  'specially  to  please  you — you're  the  one  discriminating 
critic  in  this  town ! "  As  Sylvia  made  no  answer  to  this 
sally,  she  went  on :  "  It's  hard  to  get  into  alone,  too.  I 
had  to  ask  the  hotel  chambermaid  to  hook  it  up  on  the 
shoulders." 

Thus  reminded  of  Pauline,  Sylvia  could  have  but  in- 
attentive eyes  for  the  creation  of  amber  silk  and  lace,  and 
brown  fur,  which  seductively  clad  the  handsome  body  be- 
side her. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  gave  her  favorite  a  penetrating  look. 
"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Sylvia  ?  "  she  asked  in  the 
peremptory  note  which  her  sweet  voice  of  many  modula- 
tions could  startlingly  assume  on  occasion.  Sylvia  had 
none  of  Judith's  instant  pugnacious  antagonism  to  any  per- 
emptory note.  She  answered  in  one  imploring  rush  of  a 
question,  "  Aunt  Victoria,  why  should  Father  be  so  very 
mad  at  Pauline  ?  " 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  looked  a  little  startled  at  this  direct 
reference  to  the  veiled  storm-center  of  the  day,  but  not  at 
all  displeased.  "  Oh,  your  mother  told  him  ?  Was  he  so 
very  angry?"  she  asked  with  a  slight  smile. 

"  Oh,  dreadfully !  "  returned  Sylvia.  "  I  didn't  mean  to 
listen,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  Buddy  wouldn't  go  to  sleep 
and  Father's  voice  was  so  loud — and  he  got  madder  and 


64  The  Bent  Twig 

madder  at  her."  She  went  on  with  another  question, 
"  Auntie,  who  was  Ephraim  Smith  ?  " 

Aunt  Victoria  turned  upon  her  in  astonishment,  and 
did  not,  for  a  moment,  answer ;  then :  "  Why,  that  was  the 
name  of  my  husband,  Sylvia.  What  has  that  to  do  with 
anything  ?  " 

"  Why  didn't  Pauline  like  him  ?  "  asked  Sylvia. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  replied  with  a  vivacity  of  surprise 
which  carried  her  out  of  her  usual  delicate  leisure  in  speech. 
"Pauline?  Why,  she  never  saw  him  in  her  life!  What 
are  you  talking  about,  child  ?  " 

"  But,  Father  said — I  thought — he  seemed  to  mean " 

Sylvia  halted,  not  able  to  remember  in  her  bewilderment 
what  it  had  been  that  Father  had  said.  In  a  blur  of  doubt 
and  clouded  perceptions  she  lost  all  definite  impression  of 
what  she  had  heard.  Evidently,  as  so  often  happened,  she 
had  grown-ups'  affairs  all  twisted  up  in  her  mind. 

Aunt  Victoria  was  touched  with  kindly  amusement  at 
the  little  girl's  face  of  perplexity,  and  told  her,  dismissing 
the  subject:  "Never  mind,  dear,  you  evidently  misunder- 
stood something.  But  I  wonder  what  your  father  could 
have  said  to  give  you  such  a  funny  idea." 

Sylvia  gave  it  up,  shaking  her  head.  They  turned  into 
the  main  street  of  La  Chance,  and  Aunt  Victoria  directed 
the  coachman  to  drive  them  to  "  the  "  drug  store  of  town, 
and  offered  Sylvia  her  choice  of  any  soda  water  confection 
she  might  select.  This  completed  the  "  about-face  "  of  the 
mobile  little  mind.  After  several  moments  of  blissful 
anguish  of  indecision,  Sylvia  decided  on  a  peach  ice-cream 
soda,  and  thereafter  was  nothing  but  sense  of  taste  as  she 
ecstatically  drew  through  a  straw  the  syrupy,  foamy 
draught  of  nectar.  She  took  small  sips  at  a  time  and  held 
them  in  the  back  of  her  mouth  till  every  minute  bubble  of 
gas  had  rendered  up  its  delicious  prickle  to  her  tongue. 
Her  consciousness  was  filled  to  its  uttermost  limits  with  a 
voluptuous  sense  of  present  physical  delight. 

And  yet  it  was  precisely  at  this  moment  that  from  her 
subconscious  mind,  retracing  with  unaided  travail  a  half- 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  65 

forgotten  clue,  there  sprang  into  her  memory  a  complete 
phrase  of  what  her  father  had  said.  She  gave  one  more 
suck  to  the  straw  and  laid  it  aside  for  a  moment  to  say- 
in  quite  a  comfortable  accent  to  her  aunt :  "  Oh  yes,  now  I 
remember.  He  said  she  didn't  care  for  him  any  more  than 
for  the  first  man  she  might  have  solicited  in  the  street." 
For  an  instant  the  words  came  back  as  clearly  as  though 
they  had  just  been  uttered,  and  she  repeated  them  fluently, 
returning  thereupon  at  once  to  the  charms  of  the  tall,  foam- 
filled  frosted  glass. 

Evidently  Aunt  Victoria  did  not  follow  this  sudden 
change  of  subject,  for  she  asked  blankly,  "Who?  Who 
didn't  care  for  who  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  supposed,  Pauline  for  Ephraim  Smith.  It  was 
that  that  made  Father  so  mad,"  explained  Sylvia,  sucking 
dreamily,  her  eyes  on  the  little  maelstrom  created  in  the 
foaming  liquid  by  the  straw,  forgetting  everything  else. 
The  luxurious  leisure  in  which  she  consumed  her  potation 
made  it  last  a  long  time,  and  it  was  not  until  her  suction 
made  only  a  sterile  rattling  in  the  straw  that  she  looked 
up  at  her  aunt  to  thank  her. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  face  was  averted  and  she  did  not 
turn  it  back  as  she  said,  "  Just  run  along  into  the  shop 
and  leave  your  glass,  Sylvia — here  is  the  money." 

After  Sylvia  took  her  seat  again  in  the  carriage,  the 
coachman  turned  the  horse's  head  back  up  the  Main  Street. 
"  Aren't  you  going  to  the  campus  ?  "  asked  Sylvia  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  No,  we  are  going  to  the  hotel,"  said  Aunt  Victoria. 
She  spoke  quietly,  and  seemed  to  look  as  usual,  but  Sylvia's 
inner  barometer  fell  fast  with  a  conviction  of  a  change  in 
the  emotional  atmosphere.  She  sat  as  still  as  possible,  and 
only  once  glanced  up  timidly  at  her  aunt's  face.  There  was 
no  answering  glance.  Aunt  Victoria  gazed  straight  in  front 
of  her.  Her  face  looked  as  it  did  when  it  was  being  mas- 
saged— all  smooth  and  empty.  There  was,  however,  one 
change.  For  the  first  time  that  day,  she  looked  a  little 
pale. 


66  The  Bent  Twig 

As  the  carriage  stopped  in  front  of  the  onyx-lined,  palm- 
decorated,  plate-glass-mirrored  "  entrance  hall "  of  the  ex- 
pensive hotel,  Aunt  Victoria  descended,  motioning  to  Sylvia 
not  to  follow  her.  "  I  haven't  time  to  drive  any  more  this 
afternoon,"  she  said.  "  Peter  will  take  you  home.  And 
have  him  bring  Arnold  back  at  once."  She  turned  away 
and,  as  Sylvia  sat  watching  her,  entered  the  squirrel-cage 
revolving  door  of  glass,  which  a  little  boy  in  livery  spun 
about  for  her. 

But  after  she  was  inside  the  entrance  hall,  she  signified 
to  him  that  she  had  forgotten  something,  and  came  imme- 
diately out  again.  What  she  had  forgotten  surprised  Sylvia 
as  much  as  it  touched  her.  Aunt  Victoria  came  rapidly  to 
the  side  of  the  carriage  and  put  out  her  arms.  "  Come 
here,  dear,"  she  said  in  a  voice  Sylvia  had  never  heard 
her  use.  It  trembled  a  little,  and  broke.  With  her  quick 
responsiveness,  Sylvia  sprang  into  the  outstretched  arms, 
overcome  by  the  other's  emotion.  She  hid  her  face  against 
the  soft,  perfumed  laces  and  silk,  and  heard  from  beneath 
them  the  painful  throb  of  a  quickly  beating  heart. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  held  her  niece  for  a  long  moment 
and  then  turned  the  quivering  little  face  up  to  her  own 
grave  eyes,  in  which  Sylvia,  for  all  her  inexperience,  read  a 
real  suffering.  Aunt  Victoria  looked  as  though  somebody 
were  hurting  her — hurting  her  awfully — Sylvia  pressed  her 
cheek  hard  against  her  aunt's,  and  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith 
felt,  soft  and  warm  and  ardent  on  her  lips,  the  indescrib- 
ably fresh  kiss  of  a  child's  mouth.  "  Oh,  little  Sylvia ! " 
she  cried,  in  that  new,  strange,  uncertain  voice  which  trem- 
bled and  broke,  "  Oh,  little  Sylvia ! "  She  seemed  to  be 
about  to  say  something  more,  said  in  fact  in  a  half-whisper, 

"  I  hope — I  hope "  but  then  shook  her  head,  kissed 

Sylvia  gently,  put  her  back  in  the  carriage,  and  again  dis- 
appeared through  the  revolving  door. 

This  time  she  did  not  turn  back.  She  did  not  even  look 
back.  After  a  moment's  wait,  Peter  gathered  up  the  reins 
and  Sylvia,  vaguely  uneasy,  and  much  moved,  drove  home 
in  a  solitary  state,  which  she  forgot  to  enjoy. 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  67 

The  next  morning  there  was  no  arrival,  even  tardy,  of 
the  visitors  from  the  hotel.  Instead  came  a  letter,  breaking 
the  startling  news  that  Aunt  Victoria  had  been  called  un- 
expectedly to  the  East,  and  had  left  on  the  midnight  train, 
taking  Arnold  with  her,  of  course.  Judith  burst  into  angry 
expressions  of  wrath  over  the  incompleteness  of  the  cave 
which  she  and  Arnold  had  been  excavating  together.  The 
next  day  was  the  beginning  of  school,  she  reminded  her 
auditors,  and  she'd  have  no  time  to  get  it  done!  Never! 
She  characterized  Aunt  Victoria  as  a  mean  old  thing, 
an  epithet  for  which  she  was  not  reproved,  her  mother 
sitting  quite  absent  and  absorbed  in  the  letter.  She  read 
it  over  twice,  with  a  very  puzzled  air,  which  gave  an  odd 
look  to  her  usually  crystal-clear  countenance.  She  asked 
her  husband  one  question  as  he  went  out  of  the  door. 
"  You  didn't  see  Victoria  yesterday — or  say  anything  to 
her  ?  "  to  which  he  answered,  with  apparently  uncalled-for 
heat,  "I  did  not!  I  thought  it  rather  more  to  the  purpose 
to  try  to  look  up  Pauline." 

Mrs.  Marshall  sprang  up  and  approached  him  with  an 
anxious  face.  He  shook  his  head :  "  Too  late.  Disappeared. 
No  trace." 

She  sat  down  again,  looking  sad  and  stern. 

Professor  Marshall  put  on  his  hat  with  violence,  and 
went  away. 

When  he  came  home  to  luncheon  there  was  a  fresh 
sensation,  and  again  a  disagreeable  one.  He  brought  the 
astounding  news  that,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  semes- 
ter's work,  he  had  been  deserted  by  his  most  valuable 
assistant,  and  abandoned,  apparently  forever,  by  his  most- 
loved  disciple.  Saunders  had  left  word,  a  mere  laconic 
note,  that  he  had  accepted  the  position  left  vacant  by  the 
dismissal  of  Arnold's  tutor,  and  had  entered  at  once  upon 
the  duties  of  his  new  position. 

Professor  Marshall  detailed  this  information  in  a  hard, 
level  voice,  and  without  further  comment  handed  his  wife 
Saunders'  note.  She  read  it  rapidly,  this  time  with 
no  perplexity,  and  laid  it  down,  saying  to  her  husband, 


68  The  Bent  Twig 

briefly,  "  Will  you  kindly  remember  that  the  children  are 
here?" 

Judith  looked  at  Sylvia  in  astonishment,  this  being  the 
first  time  that  that  well-worn  phrase,  so  familiar  to  most 
children,  had  ever  been  heard  in  the  Marshall  house.  Why 
shouldn't  Father  remember  they  were  there?  Couldn't  he 
see  them?  Judith  almost  found  the  idea  funny  enough  to 
laugh  at,  although  she  had  not  at  all  in  general  Sylvia's 
helpless  response  to  the  ridiculous.  Sylvia  did  not  laugh 
now.  She  looked  anxiously  at  her  father's  face,  and  was 
relieved  when  he  only  answered  her  mother's  exhortation 
by  saying  in  a  low  tone :  "  Oh,  /  have  nothing  to  say.  It's 
beyond  words !  " 

Luncheon  went  on  as  usual,  with  much  chatter  among 
the  children.  Some  time  later — in  the  midst  of  a  long 
story  from  Lawrence,  Mrs.  Marshall  herself  brought  up 
the  subject  again.  Buddy  was  beginning  to  struggle  with 
the  narrative  form  of  self-expression,  and  to  trip  his  tongue 
desperately  over  the  tenses.  He  had  just  said,  "  And  the 
rabbit  was  naughty,  didn't  he  was  ?  "  when  his  mother  ex- 
claimed, addressing  her  husband's  grim  face,  "  Good 
Heavens,  don't  take  it  so  hard,  Elliott." 

He  raised  an  eyebrow,  but  did  not  look  up  from  the 
pear  he  was  eating.  "  To  be  responsible,  as  I  feel  I  am, 
for  the  pitching  into  a  cul-de-sac  of  the  most  promising 
young " 

His  wife  broke  in,  "Responsible!  How  in  the  world  are 
you  responsible !  "  she  added  quickly,  as  if  at  random,  to 
prevent  the  reply  which  her  husband  was  evidently  about  to 
cast  at  her.  "  Besides,  how  do  you  know  ? — one  never 
knows  how  things  will  turn  out — she  may — she  may  marry 
him,  and  he  may  have  a  life  which  will  give  him  more 
leisure  for  investigation  than  if " 

Professor  Marshall  wiped  his  lips  violently  on  his  nap- 
kin and  stood  up.  "  Nothing  would  induce  her  to  marry 
him — or  any  one  else.  She's  extracted  from  marriage  all 
she  wants  of  it.  No,  she'll  just  keep  him  trailing  along, 
in  an  ambiguous   position,    sickened   and   tantalized   and 


The  Sights  of  La  Chance  69 

fevered,  till  all  the  temper  is  drawn  out  of  him — and  then 
he'll  be  dropped." 

He  turned  away  with  an  impatient  fling  of  his  head.  His 
wife  stood  up  now  and  looked  at  him  anxiously.  "  Go  play 
us  something  on  the  piano,"  she  urged.  This  was  not  a 
common  exhortation  from  her.  She  cared  very  little  for 
music,  and  with  her  usual  honesty  she  showed,  as  a  rule,  a 
very  passive  attitude  towards  it. 

Professor  Marshall  glanced  at  her  with  a  flash  of  an- 
ger. "  Sometimes  you  count  too  much  on  my  childish- 
ness, Barbara,"  he  said  resentfully,  and  went  out  of  the 
door  without  further  words. 

Decidedly  the  discomposing  effect  of  Aunt  Victoria's  visit 
lasted  even  after  she  had  gone  away.  But  the  next  day 
was  the  beginning  of  the  school  term,  the  busy,  regular 
routine  was  taken  up,  Sylvia  was  promoted  to  the  5A 
grade,  and  at  home  Father  let  her  begin  to  learn  the  Pil- 
grim's Chorus,  from  Tannhauser. 

Life  for  the  eager  little  girl  moved  quickly  forward  at 
its  usual  brisk  pace,  through  several  years  to  come. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"  WE  HOLD  THESE  TRUTHS  TO  BE  SELF- 
EVIDENT  .  .  ." 

The  public  school  to  which  the  Marshall  children  went 
as  soon  as  they  were  old  enough  was  like  any  one  of  ten 
thousand  public  schools — a  large,  square,  many-windowed, 
extravagantly  ugly  building,  once  red  brick,  but  long  ago 
darkened  almost  to  black  by  soft-coal  smoke.  About  it, 
shaded  by  three  or  four  big  cottonwood-trees,  was  an  in- 
closed space  of  perhaps  two  acres  of  ground,  beaten  per- 
fectly smooth  by  hundreds  of  trampling  little  feet,  a  hard, 
bare  earthen  floor,  so  entirely  subdued  to  its  fate  that 
even  in  the  long  summer  vacation  no  spear  of  grass  could 
penetrate  its  crust  to  remind  it  that  it  was  made  of  com- 
mon stuff  with  fields  and  meadows. 

School  began  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  and,  as  a 
rule,  three-fourths  of  the  children  had  passed  through  the 
front  gate  twenty  or  thirty  minutes  earlier.  Nobody  knew 
why  it  should  be  considered  such  a  hideous  crime  to  be 
"  tardy,"  but  the  fact  was  that  not  the  most  reckless  and 
insubordinate  of  the  older  boys  cared  to  risk  it.  Any  one 
of  the  four  hundred  children  in  any  public  school  in  the 
city  preferred  infinitely  to  be  absent  a  day  than  to  have  the 
ghastly  experience  of  walking  through  deserted  streets 
(that  is,  with  no  children  on  them),  across  the  empty  play- 
ground frighteningly  unlike  itself,  into  the  long,  desolate 
halls  which,  walk  as  cat-like  as  one  might,  resounded  to 
the  guilty  footsteps  with  accusing  echoes.  And  then  the 
narrow  cloakroom,  haunted  with  limp,  hanging  coats  and 
caps  and  hats,  and  finally  the  entry  into  the  schoolroom, 
seated  rank  on  rank  with  priggishly  complacent  schoolmates, 

70 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident"    71 

looking  up  from  their  books  with  unfriendly  eyes  of  blame 
at  the  figure  of  the  late-comer. 

All  over  that  section  of  La  Chance,  during  the  hour  be- 
tween half-past  seven  and  half-past  eight  in  the  morning, 
the  families  of  school  children  were  undergoing  a  most 
rigorous  discipline  in  regularity  and  promptness.  No 
child  was  too  small  or  too  timid  to  refrain  from  embit- 
tering his  mother's  life  with  clamorous  upbraidings  if 
breakfast  were  late,  or  his  school-outfit  of  clothes  were  not 
ready  to  the  last  button,  so  that  he  could  join  the  proces- 
sion of  schoolward-bound  children,  already  streaming  past 
his  door  at  a  quarter  past  eight.  The  most  easy-going  and 
self-indulgent  mother  learned  to  have  at  least  one  meal  a 
day  on  time ;  and  the  children  themselves  during  those  eight 
years  of  their  lives  had  imbedded  in  the  tissue  of  their 
brains  and  the  marrow  of  their  bones  that  unrebelling  habit 
of  bending  their  backs  daily  to  a  regular  burden  of  work 
not  selected  by  themselves — which,  according  to  one's  point 
of  view,  is  either  the  bane  or  the  salvation  of  our  modern 
industrial  society. 

The  region  where  the  school  stood  was  inhabited,  for 
the  most  part,  by  American  families  or  German  and  Irish 
ones  so  long  established  as  to  be  virtually  American;  a 
condition  which  was  then  not  infrequent  in  moderate-sized 
towns  of  the  Middle  West  and  which  is  still  by  no  means 
unknown  there.  The  class-rolls  were  full  of  Taylors  and 
Aliens  and  Robinsons  and  Jacksons  and  Websters  and  Raw- 
sons  and  Putnams,  with  a  scattering  of  Morrisseys  and 
Crimminses  and  O'Hearns,  and  some  Schultzes  and  Bru- 
backers  and  Helmeyers.  There  was  not  a  Jew  in  the  school, 
because  there  were  almost  none  in  that  quarter  of  town, 
and,  for  quite  another  reason,  not  a  single  negro  child. 
There  were  plenty  of  them  in  the  immediate  neighborhood, 
swarming  around  the  collection  of  huts  and  shanties  near 
the  railroad  tracks  given  over  to  negroes,  and  known  as 
Flytown.  But  they  had  their  own  school,  which  looked 
externally  quite  like  all  the  others  in  town,  and  their  play- 
ground, beaten  bare  like  that  of  the  Washington  Street 


72  The  Bent  Twig 

School,  was  filled  with  laughing,  shouting  children,  ranging 
from  shoe-black  through  coffee-color  to  those  occasional 
tragic  ones  with  white  skin  and  blue  eyes,  but  with  the 
telltale  kink  in  the  fair  hair  and  the  bluish  half-moon  at 
the  base  of  the  finger-nails. 

The  four  hundred  children  in  the  Washington  Street 
School  were,  therefore,  a  mass  more  homogeneous  than 
alarmists  would  have  us  believe  it  possible  to  find  in  this 
country.  They  were,  for  all  practical  purposes,  all  Ameri- 
can, and  they  were  all  roughly  of  one  class.  Their  families 
were  neither  rich  nor  poor  (at  least  so  far  as  the  children's 
standards  went).  Their  fathers  were  grocers,  small  clerks, 
merchants,  two  or  three  were  truck-farmers,  plumbers, 
carpenters,  accountants,  employees  of  various  big  businesses 
in  town. 

It  was  into  this  undistinguished  and  plebeian  mediocrity 
that  the  Marshall  children  were  introduced  when  they  be- 
gan going  to  school. 

The  interior  of  the  school-building  resembled  the  outside 
in  being  precisely  like  that  of  ten  thousand  other  graded 
schools  in  this  country.  The  halls  were  long  and  dark  and 
dusty,  and  because  the  building  had  been  put  up  under 
contract  at  a  period  when  public  contract-work  was  not 
so  scrupulously  honest  as  it  notably  is  in  our  present  cleanly 
muck-raked  era,  the  steps  of  the  badly  built  staircase 
creaked  and  groaned  and  sagged  and  gave  forth  clouds 
of  dust  under  the  weight  of  the  myriads  of  little  feet  which 
climbed  up  and  down  those  steep  ascents  every  day.  Every- 
thing was  of  wood.  The  interior  looked  like  the  realized 
dream  of  a  professional  incendiary. 

The  classrooms  were  high  and  well-lighted,  with  many 
large  windows,  never  either  very  clean  or  very  dirty,  which 
let  in  a  flood  of  our  uncompromisingly  brilliant  American 
daylight  upon  the  rows  of  little  seats  and  desks  screwed,  like 
those  of  an  ocean  liner,  immovably  to  the  floor,  as  though  at 
any  moment  the  building  was  likely  to  embark  upon  a  cruise 
in  stormy  waters. 

Outwardly  the  rows  of  clean-faced,  comfortably  dressed, 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident"    73 

well-shod  American  children,  sitting  in  chairs,  bore 
no  resemblance  to  shaven-headed,  barefooted  little  Ara- 
bian students,  squatting  on  the  floor,  gabbling  loud  un- 
comprehended  texts  from  the  Koran;  but  the  sight  of 
Sylvia's  companions  bending  over  their  school-books  with 
glazed,  vacant  eyes,  rocking  back  and  forth  as  a  rhythmical 
aid  to  memorizing,  their  lips  moving  silently  as  they  re- 
peated over  and  over,  gabblingly,  the  phrases  of  the 
printed  page,  might  have  inclined  a  hypothetical  visitor 
from  Mars  to  share  the  bewildered  amusement  of  the 
American  visitors  to  Moslem  schools.  Sylvia  rocked  and 
twisted  a  favorite  button,  gabbled  silently,  and  recited 
fluently  with  the  rest,  being  what  was  known  as  an  apt 
and  satisfactory  pupil.  In  company  with  the  other  chil- 
dren she  thus  learned  to  say,  in  answer  to  questions,  that 
seven  times  seven  is  forty-nine;  that  the  climate  of  Brazil 
is  hot  and  moist;  that  the  capital  of  Arkansas  is  Little 
Rock ;  and  that  "  through  "  is  spelled  with  three  misleading 
and  superfluous  letters. 

What  she  really  learned  was,  as  with  her  mates,  another 
matter — for,  of  course,  those  devouringly  active  little  minds 
did  not  spend  six  hours  a  day  in  school  without  learning 
something  incessantly.  The  few  rags  and  tatters  of  book- 
information  they  acquired  were  but  the  merest  fringes  on 
the  great  garment  of  learning  acquired  by  these  public- 
school  children,  which  was  to  wrap  them  about  all  their 
lives.  What  they  learned  during  those  eight  years  of  sit- 
ting still  and  not  whispering  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
books  in  their  desks  or  the  lore  in  their  teachers'  brains. 
The  great  impression  stamped  upon  the  wax  of  their 
minds,  which  became  iron  in  after  years,  was  democracy — 
a  crude,  distorted,  wavering  image  of  democracy,  like 
every  image  an  ideal  in  this  imperfect  world,  but  in  its 
essence  a  reflection  of  the  ideal  of  their  country.  No 
European  could  have  conceived  how  literally  it  was  true 
that  the  birth  or  wealth  or  social  position  of  a  child  made 
no  difference  in  the  estimation  of  his  mates.  There  were 
no  exceptions  to  the  custom  of  considering  the  individual 


74  The  Bent  Twig 

on  his  own  merits.  These  merits  were  often  queerly  enough 
imagined,  a  faculty  for  standing  on  his  head  redounding  as 
much,  or  more,  to  a  boy's  credit  as  the  utmost  brilliance  in 
recitation,  or  generosity  of  temperament,  but  at  least  he 
was  valued  for  something  he  himself  could  do,  and  not  for 
any  fortuitous  incidents  of  birth  and  fortune. 

Furthermore  there  lay  back  of  these  four  hundred  chil- 
dren, who  shaped  their  world  to  this  rough-and-ready  imi- 
tation of  democracy,  their  families,  not  so  intimately  known 
to  each  other,  of  course,  as  the  children  themselves,  but 
still  by  no  means  unknown  in  their  general  characteristics; 
four  hundred  American  families  who  were,  on  the  whole, 
industrious,  law-abiding,  who  loved  their  children,  who 
were  quite  tasteless  in  matters  of  art,  and  quite  sound 
though  narrow  in  matters  of  morals,  utterly  mediocre  in 
intelligence  and  information,  with  no  breadth  of  outlook 
in  any  direction;  but  who  somehow  lived  their  lives  and 
faced  and  conquered  all  the  incredible  vicissitudes  of  that 
Great  Adventure,  with  an  unconscious,  cheerful  forti- 
tude which  many  an  acuter  mind  might  have  envied 
them. 

It  is  possible  that  the  personal  knowledge  of  these  four 
hundred  enduring  family  lives  was,  perhaps,  the  most  im- 
portant mental  ballast  taken  on  by  the  children  of  the  com- 
munity during  their  eight  years'  cruise  at  school.  Certainly 
it  was  the  most  important  for  the  sensitive,  complicated, 
impressionable  little  Sylvia  Marshall,  with  her  latent  dis- 
taste for  whatever  lacked  distinction  and  external  grace, 
and  her  passion  for  sophistication  and  elegance,  which  was 
to  spring  into  such  fierce  life  with  the  beginning  of  her 
adolescence.  She  might  renounce,  as  utterly  as  she  pleased, 
the  associates  of  her  early  youth,  but  the  knowledge  of  their 
existence,  the  acquaintance  with  their  deep  humanity,  the 
knowledge  that  they  found  life  sweet  and  worth  living,  all 
this  was  to  be  a  part  of  the  tissue  of  her  brain  forever,  and 
was  to  add  one  to  the  conflicting  elements  which  battled 
within  her  for  the  mastery  during  all  the  clouded,  stormy 
radiance  of  her  youth. 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident"    75 

The  families  which  supplied  the  Washington  Street 
School  being  quite  stationary  in  their  self-owned  houses, 
few  new  pupils  entered  during  the  school-year.  There  was, 
consequently,  quite  a  sensation  on  the  day  in  the  middle 
of  March  when  the  two  Fingal  girls  entered,  Camilla  in  the 
"  Fifth  A "  grade,  where  Sylvia  was,  and  Cecile  in  the 
third  grade,  in  the  next  seat  to  Judith's.  The  girls  them- 
selves were  so  different  from  other  children  in  school  that 
their  arrival  would  have  excited  interest  even  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  school-year.  Coming,  as  they  did,  at  a  time 
when  everybody  knew  by  heart  every  detail  of  every  one 
else's  appearance  from  hair-ribbon  to  shoes,  these  two 
beautiful  exotics,  in  their  rich,  plain,  mourning  dresses  were 
vastly  stared  at.  Sylvia's  impressionable  eyes  were  espe- 
cially struck  by  the  air  of  race  and  breeding  of  the  new- 
comer in  her  class.  Everything  about  the  other  child,  from 
her  heavy,  black  hair,  patrician  nose,  and  large  dark  eyes 
to  her  exquisitely  formed  hands,  white  and  well-cared-for, 
seemed  to  Sylvia  perfection  itself. 

During  recess  she  advanced  to  the  new-comer,  saying, 
with  a  bright  smile :  "  Aren't  you  thirsty  ?  Don't  you  want 
me  to  show  you  where  the  pump  is  ?  "  She  put  out  her  hand 
as  she  spoke  and  took  the  slim  white  fingers  in  her  own 
rough  little  hand,  leading  her  new  schoolmate  along  in 
silence,   looking  at  her  with  an  open   interest. 

She  had  confidently  expected  amicable  responsiveness  in 
the  other  little  girl,  because  her  experience  had  been  that 
her  own  frank  friendliness  nearly  always  was  reflected 
back  to  her  from  others;  but  she  had  not  expected,  or  in- 
deed ever  seen,  such  an  ardent  look  of  gratitude  as  burned 
in  the  other's  eyes.  She  stopped,  startled,  uncomprehend- 
ing, as  though  her  companion  had  said  something  unin- 
telligible, and  felt  the  slim  fingers  in  her  hand  close  about 
her  own  in  a  tight  clasp.  "  You  are  so  very  kind  to  show 
me  this  pump,"  breathed  Camilla  shyly.  The  faint  flavor 
of  a  foreign  accent  which,  to  Sylvia's  ear,  hung  about  these 
words,  was  the  final  touch  of  fascination  for  her.  That  in- 
stant she  decided  in  her  impetuous,  enthusiastic  heart  that 


7j 


The  Bent  Twig 


Camilla  was  the  most  beautiful,  sweetest,  best-dressed, 
loveliest  creature  she  had  ever  seen,  or  would  ever  see  in 
her  life;  and  she  bent  her  back  joyfully  in  the  service  of  her 
ideal.  She  would  not  allow  Camilla  to  pump  for  herself, 
but  flew  to  the  handle  with  such  energy  that  the  white 
water  gushed  out  in  a  flood,  overflowing  Camilla's  cup, 
spattering  over  on  her  fingers,  and  sparkling  on  the  sheer 
white  of  her  hemstitched  cuffs.  This  made  them  both 
laugh,  the  delicious  silly  laugh  of  childhood. 

Already  they  seemed  like  friends.  "  How  do  you  pro- 
nounce your  name  ?  "  Sylvia  asked  familiarly. 

"  Cam-eela  Fingal,"  said  the  other,  looking  up  from  her 
cup,  her  upper  lip  red  and  moist.  She  accented  the  sur- 
name on  the  last  syllable. 

"  What  a  perfectly  lovely  name !  "  cried  Sylvia.  "  Mine 
is  Sylvia  Marshall." 

"  That's  a  pretty  name  too,"  said  Camilla,  smiling.  She 
spoke  less  timidly  now,  but  her  fawn-like  eyes  still  kept 
their  curious  expression,  half  apprehension,  half  hope. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  asked  Sylvia. 

"  Eleven,  last  November." 

"  Why,  my  birthday  is  in  November,  and  I  was  eleven 
too !  "  cried  Sylvia.  "  I  thought  you  must  be  older — you're 
so  tall." 

Camilla  looked  down  and  said  nothing. 

Sylvia  went  on :  "  I'm  crazy  about  the  way  you  do  your 
hair,  in  those  twists  over  your  ears.  When  I  was  study- 
ing my  spelling  lesson,  I  was  trying  to  figure  out  how 
you  do  it." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  do  it.  Mattice  does  it  for  us — for  Cecile 
and  me — Cecile's  my  sister.    She's  in  the  third  grade." 

"  Why,  I  have  a  sister  in  the  third  grade  too ! "  ex- 
claimed Sylvia,  much  struck  by  this  second  propitious  co- 
incidence. "  Her  name  is  Judith  and  she's  a  darling. 
Wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  she  and  Cecile  should  be  good  friends 
too!"  She  put  her  arm  about  her  new  comrade's  waist, 
convinced  that  they  were  now  intimates  of  long  standing. 
They  ran  together  to  take  their  places  at  the  sound  of  the 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self -Evident"    77 

bell;  all  during  the  rest  of  the  morning  session  she  smiled 
radiantly  at  the  new-comer  whenever  their  eyes  met. 

She  planned  to  walk  part  way  home  with  her  at  noon, 
but  she  was  detained  for  a  moment  by  the  teacher,  and 
when  she  reached  the  front  gate,  where  Judith  was  waiting 
for  her,  Camilla  was  nowhere  in  sight.  Judith  explained 
with  some  disfavor  that  a  surrey  had  been  waiting  for 
the  Fingal  girls  and  they  had  been  driven  away. 

Sylvia  fell  into  a  rhapsody  over  her  new  acquaintance  and 
found  to  her  surprise  (it  was  always  a  surprise  to  Sylvia 
that  Judith's  tastes  and  judgments  so  frequently  differed 
from  hers)  that  Judith  by  no  means  shared  her  enthusiasm. 
She  admitted,  but  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  no  importance, 
that  both  Camilla  and  Cecile  were  pretty  enough,  but  she 
declared  roundly  that  Cecile  was  a  little  sneak  who  had 
set  out  from  the  first  to  be  "  Teacher's  pet."  This  title,  in 
the  sturdy  democracy  of  the  public  schools,  means  about 
what  "  sycophantic  lickspittle  "  means  in  the  vocabulary  of 
adults,  and  carries  with  it  a  crushing  weight  of  odium 
which  can  hardly  ever  be  lived  down. 

"  Judith,  what  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  cried  Sylvia,  horri- 
fied at  the  epithet. 

"  The  way  she  looks  at  Teacher — she  never  takes  her 
eyes  off  her,  and  just  jumps  to  do  whatever  Teacher  says. 
And  then  she  looks  at  everybody  so  kind  o'  scared — 's'if  she 
thought  she  was  goin'  to  be  hit  over  the  head  every  minute 
and  was  so  thankful  to  everybody  for  not  doing  it.  Makes 
me  feel  just  like  doin'  it!"  declared  Judith,  the  Anglo- 
Saxon. 

Sylvia  recognized  a  scornful  version  of  the  appealing 
expression  which  she  had  found  so  touching  in  Camilla. 

"  Why,  I  think  it's  sweet  of  them  to  look  so !  When 
they're  so  awfully  pretty,  and  have  such  good  clothes — and 
a  carriage — and  everything !  They  might  be  as  stuck-up  as 
anything!  I  think  it's  just  nice  for  them  to  be  so  sweet!  " 
persisted  Sylvia. 

"I  don't  call  it  bein'  sweet,"  said  Judith,  "to  watch 
Teacher  every  minute  and  smile  all  over  your  face  if  she 


78  The  Bent  Twig 

looks  at  you  and  hold  on  to  her  hand  when  she's  talkhY  to 
you !    It's  silly !  " 

They  argued  all  the  way  home,  and  the  lunch  hour  was 
filled  with  appeals  to  their  parents  to  take  sides.  Professor 
and  Mrs.  Marshall,  always  ready,  although  occasionally 
somewhat  absent,  listeners  to  school  news,  professed  them- 
selves really  interested  in  these  new  scholars  and  quite 
perplexed  by  the  phenomenon  of  two  beautiful  dark-eyed 
children,  called  Camilla  and  Cecile  Fingal.  Judith  refused 
to  twist  her  tongue  to  pronounce  the  last  syllable  accented, 
and  her  version  of  the  name  made  it  sound  Celtic.  "  Per- 
haps their  father  is  Irish  and  the  mother  Italian  or  Span- 
ish," suggested  Professor  Marshall. 

Sylvia  was  delighted  with  this  hypothesis,  and  cried  out 
enthusiastically,  "  Oh  yes — Camilla  looks  Italian — like  an 
Italian  princess ! " 

Judith  assumed  an  incredulous  and  derisive  expression 
and  remained  silent,  an  achievement  of  self-control  which 
Sylvia  was  never  able  to  emulate. 

The  Fingal  girls  continued  to  occupy  a  large  space  in 
Sylvia's  thoughts  and  hours,  and  before  long  they  held  a 
unique  position  in  the  opinion  of  the  school,  which  was 
divided  about  evenly  between  the  extremes  represented  by 
Sylvia  and  Judith.  The  various  accomplishments  of  the 
new-comers  were  ground  both  for  uneasy  admiration  and 
suspicion.  They  could  sing  like  birds,  and,  what  seemed 
like  witchcraft  to  the  unmusical  little  Americans  about 
them,  they  could  sing  in  harmony  as  easily  as  they  could 
carry  an  air.  And  they  recited  with  fire,  ease,  and  evident 
enjoyment,  instead  of  with  the  show  of  groaning,  unwilling 
submission  to  authority  which  it  was  etiquette  in  the  Wash- 
ington Street  School  to  show  before  beginning  to  "  speak 
a  piece." 

They  were  good  at  their  books  too,  and  altogether,  with 
their  quick  docility,  picturesqueness,  and  eagerness  to  please, 
were  the  delight  of  their  teachers.  In  the  fifth  grade, 
Sylvia's  example  of  intimate,  admiring  friendship  definitely 
threw  popular  favor  on  the  side  of  Camilla,  who  made  every 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self -Evident"    79 

effort  to  disarm  the  hostility  aroused  by  her  too-numerous 
gifts  of  nature.  She  was  ready  to  be  friends  with  the  poor- 
est and  dullest  of  the  girls,  never  asked  the  important  roles 
in  any  games,  hid  rather  than  put  forward  the  high  marks 
she  received  in  her  studies,  and  was  lavish  with  her  invita- 
tions to  her  schoolmates  to  visit  her  at  home. 

The  outside  of  this  house,  which  Mr.  Fingal  had  rented 
a  month  or  so  before  when  they  first  moved  to  La  Chance, 
was  like  any  one  of  many  in  the  region;  but  the  interior 
differed  notably  from  those  to  which  the  other  children 
were  accustomed.  For  one  thing  there  was  no  "  lady  of 
the  house,"  Mrs.  Fingal  having  died  a  short  time  before. 
Camilla  and  Cecile  could  do  exactly  as  they  pleased,  and 
they  gave  the  freedom  of  the  house  and  its  contents  lavishly 
to  their  little  friends.  In  the  kitchen  was  an  enormous  old 
negro  woman,  always  good-natured,  always  smelling  of 
whiskey.  She  kept  on  hand  a  supply  of  the  most  meltingly 
delicious  cakes  and  cookies,  and  her  liberal  motto,  M  Heah, 
chile,  put  yo'  han'  in  the  cookie- j  ah  and  draw  out  what 
you  lights  on ! "  was  always  flourished  in  the  faces  of  the 
schoolmates  of  the  two  daughters  of  the  house. 

In  the  rest  of  the  house,  filled  with  dark,  heavy,  dimly 
shining  furniture,  reigned  Mattice,  another  old  negro 
woman,  but,  unlike  the  jolly,  fat  cook,  yellow  and  shriveled 
and  silent.  She  it  was  who  arrayed  Camille  and  Cecile  with 
such  unerring  taste,  and  her  skilful  old  hands  brushed  and 
dressed  their  long  black  hair  in  artful  twists  and  coils. 

Here,  against  their  own  background,  the  two  girls  seemed 
more  at  their  ease  and  showed  more  spontaneity  than  at 
school.  They  were  fond  of  "  dressing  up  "  and  of  organiz- 
ing impromptu  dramatizations  of  the  stories  of  familiar 
books,  and  showed  a  native  ability  for  acting  which  ex- 
plained their  success  in  recitations.  Once  when  the  fun  was 
very  rollicking,  Camilla  brought  out  from  a  closet  a  banjo 
and,  thrumming  on  its  strings  with  skilful  fingers,  played  a 
tingling  accompaniment  to  one  of  her  songs.  The  other 
little  girls  were  delighted  and  clamored  for  more,  but  she 
put  it  away  quickly  with  almost  a  frown  on  her  sweet 


80  The  Bent  Twig 

face,  and  for  once  in  her  life  did  not  yield  to  their  demands. 

"  Well,  I  think  more  of  her  for  that !  "  remarked  Judith, 
when  this  incident  was  repeated  to  her  by  Sylvia,  who  cried 
out,  "  Why,  Judy,  how  hateful  you  are  about  poor  Camilla !  " 

Nothing  was  learned  about  the  past  history  of  the  Fin- 
gals  beyond  the  fact,  dropped  once  by  the  cook,  that  they 
had  lived  in  Louisiana  before  coming  to  La  Chance,  but 
there  were  rumors,  based  on  nothing  at  all,  and  everywhere 
credited,  that  their  mother  had  been  a  Spanish-American 
heiress,  disinherited  by  her  family  for  marrying  a  Protes- 
tant. Such  a  romantic  and  picturesque  element  had  never 
before  entered  the  lives  of  the  Washington  Street  school- 
children. Once  a  bold  and  insensitive  little  girl,  itching  to 
know  more  of  this  story-book  history,  had  broken  the  silence 
about  Mrs.  Fingal  and  had  asked  Camilla  bluntly,  "  Say, 
who  was  your  mother,  anyway  ?  "  The  question  had  been 
received  by  Camilla  with  whitening  lips  and  a  desperate 
silence — ended  by  a  sudden  loud  burst  of  sobs,  which  tore 
Sylvia's  heart.  "  You  mean,  horrid  thing!  "  she  cried  to  the 
inquisitor.  "  Her  mother  isn't  dead  a  year  yet !  Camilla 
can't  bear  to  talk  about  her ! " 

Once  in  a  great  while  Mr.  Fingal  was -visible, — a  bald, 
middle-aged  man  with  a  white,  sad  face,  and  eyes  that  never 
smiled,  although  his  lips  often  did  when  he  saw  the  clusters 
of  admiring  children  hanging  about  his  daughters. 

Judith  held  aloof  from  these  gatherings  at  the  Fingal 
house,  her  prejudice  against  the  girls  never  weakening, 
although  Cecile  as  well  as  Camilla  had  won  over  almost  all 
the  other  girls  of  her  grade.  Judith  showed  the  self-con- 
tained indifference  which  it  was  her  habit  to  feel  about  mat- 
ters which  did  not  deeply  stir  her,  and  made  no  further  at- 
tempts to  analyze  or  even  to.  voice  her  animosity  beyond 
saying  once,  when  asked  to  go  with  them  on  a  drive,  that 
she  didn't  like  their  "  meechin'  ways," — a  vigorous  New 
England  phrase  which  she  had  picked  up  from  her  mother. 

About  a  month  after  the  Fingal  girls  entered  school,  the 
project  of  a  picnic  took  form  among  the  girls  of  the  Fifth  A 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident"    81 

grade.  One  of  them  had  an  uncle  who  lived  three  or  four 
miles  from  town  on  a  farm  which  was  passed  by  the  Inter- 
urban  trolley  line,  and  he  had  sent  word  that  the  children 
could,  if  they  li^ed,  picnic  in  his  maple  woods,  which  over- 
hung the  brown  waters  of  the  Piquota  river.  There  was 
to  be  no  recess  that  day  in  Five  A,  and  the  grade  was  to  be 
dismissed  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  so  that  the  girls 
could  go  out  on  the  trolley  in  time  to  get  the  supper  ready. 
The  farmer  was  to  bring  them  back  by  moonlight  in  his 
hay-wagon. 

The  prospect  seemed  ideal.  Five  A  hummed  with  ex- 
citement and  importance  as  the  various  provisions  were 
allotted  to  the  different  girls  and  the  plans  talked  over. 
Sylvia  was  to  bring  bananas  enough  for  the  crowd;  one 
of  the  German-American  girls,  whose  father  kept  a  grocery- 
store,  promised  pickles  and  olives;  three  or  four  together 
were  to  make  the  sandwiches,  and  Camilla  Fingal  was  to 
bring  along  a  big  bag  of  the  famous  rich  and  be-raisined 
cookies  that  lived  in  the  "  cookie-jah."  Sylvia,  who  always 
enjoyed  prodigiously  both  in  anticipation  and  in  reality  any 
aocial  event,  could  scarcely  contain  herself  as  the  time  drew 
near  with  every  prospect  of  fair  weather. 

The  morning  of  the  day  was  clear  and  fine,  a  perfect  ex- 
ample of  early  spring,  with  silvery  pearls  showing  on 
the  tips  of  the  red-twig  osiers,  and  pussy-willows  gleam- 
ing gray  along  the  margins  of  swampy  places.  Sylvia  and 
Judith  felt  themselves  one  with  this  upward  surge  of  new 
life.  They  ran  to  school  together,  laughing  aloud  for  no 
reason,  racing  and  skipping  like  a  couple  of  spring  lambs, 
their  minds  and  hearts  as  crystal-clear  of  any  shadow  as  the 
pale-blue,  smiling  sky  above  them.  The  rising  sap  beat  in 
their  young  bodies  as  well  as  in  the  beech-trees  through 
which  they  scampered,  whirling  their  school-books  at  the 
end  of  their  straps,  and  shouting  aloud  to  hear  the  squirrel's 
petulant,  chattering  answer. 

When  they  came  within  sight  and  hearing  of  the  school- 
house,  their  practised  ears  detected  (although  with  no  hint 
of  foreboding)  that  something  unusual  had  happened.    The 


82  The  Bent  Twig 

children  were  not  running  about  and  screaming,  but  stand- 
ing with  their  heads  close  together,  talking,  and  talking,  and 
talking.  As  Judith  and  Sylvia  came  near,  several  ran  to 
meet  them,  hurling  out  at  them  like  a  hard-flung  stone: 
"  Say — what  d'ye  think  ?    Those  Fingal  girls  are  niggers  !  " 

To  the  end  of  her  life,  Sylvia  would  never  forget  the  rend- 
ing shock  of  disillusion  brought  her  by  these  blunt  words. 
She  did  not  dream  of  disbelieving  them,  or  of  underestimat- 
ing their  significance.  A  thousand  confirmatory  details  leaped 
into  her  mind:  the  rich,  sweet  voices — the  dramatic  ability 
— the  banjo — the  deprecatory  air  of  timidity — the  self-con- 
scious unwillingness  to  take  the  leading  position  to  which 
their  talents  and  beauty  gave  them  a  right.  Yes,  of  course 
it  was  true !  In  the  space  of  a  heartbeat,  all  her  romantic 
Italian  imaginings  vanished.  She  continued  to  walk  for- 
ward mechanically,  in  an  utter  confusion  of  mind. 

She  heard  Judith  asking  in  an  astonished  voice,  "  Why, 
what  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  and  she  listened  with  a  tor- 
tured attention  to  the  statement  vouchsafed  in  an  excited 
chorus  by  a  great  many  shrill  little  voices  that  the  Fingals' 
old  cook  had  taken  a  little  too  much  whiskey  for  once  and 
had  fallen  to  babbling  at  the  grocery-store  before  a  highly 
entertained  audience  of  neighbors,  about  the  endless  pere- 
grinations of  the  Fingal  family  in  search  of  a  locality  where 
the  blood  of  the  children  would  not  be  suspected — "an* 
theah  motheh,  fo'  all  heh  good  looks,  second  cousin  to 
Mattice !  "  she  had  tittered  foolishly,  gathering  up  her  basket 
and  rolling  tipsily  out  of  the  store. 

"  Well — "  said  Judith,  "  did  you  ever !  "  She  was  evi- 
dently as  much  amazed  as  her  sister,  but  Sylvia  felt  with  a 
sinking  of  the  heart  that  what  seemed  to  her  the  real  signifi- 
cance of  the  news  had  escaped  Judith. 

The  Five  A  girls  came  trooping  up  to  Sylvia. — "  Of 
course  we  can't  have  Camilla  at  the  picnic." — "  My  uncle 
wouldn't  want  a  nigger  there." — "  We'll  have  to  tell  her  she 
can't  come." 

Sylvia  heard  from  the  other  groups  of  children  about 
them  snatches  of  similar  talk. — "  Anybody  might  ha'  known 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident"    83 

it — singin'  the  way  they  do — just  like  niggers'  voices." — 
"  They'll  have  to  go  to  the  nigger  school  now." — u  Huh ! 
puttin'  on  airs  with  their  carriage  and  their  black  dresses — 
nothin'  but  niggers ! "  The  air  seemed  full  of  that  word. 
Sylvia  sickened  and  quailed. 

Not  so  Judith !  It  had  taken  her  a  moment  to  understand 
the  way  in  which  the  news  was  being  received.  When  she 
did,  she  turned  very  pale,  and  broke  out  into  a  storm  of 
anger.  She  stuttered  and  halted  as  she  always  did  when 
overmastered  by  feeling,  but  her  words  were  molten.  She 
ignored  the  tacit  separation  between  children  of  different 
grades  and,  though  but  a  third-grader,  threw  herself  pas- 
sionately among  the  girls  who  were  talking  of  the  picnic, 
clawing  at  their  arms,  forcing  her  way  to  the  center,  a  rag- 
ing, white-faced,  hot-eyed  little  thunderbolt.  "  You're  the 
meanest  low-down  things  I  ever  heard  of ! "  she  told  the 
astonished  older  girls,  fairly  spitting  at  them  in  her  fury. 
"  You — you  go  and  s-sponge  off  the  Fingals  for  c-c-cakes 
ind  rides  and  s-s-soda  water — and  you  think  they're  too 
1-1-lovely  for  w- words — and  you  t-t-try  to  do  your  hair  just 
the  way  C-C-Camilla  does.  They  aren't  any  different  to-day 
f-f-from  what  they  were  yesterday — are  they?  You  make 
me  sick — you  m-m-make  m-m-me " 

The  big  bell  rang  out  its  single  deep  brazen  note  for  the 
formation  of  lines,  and  the  habit  of  unquestioning,  instant 
obedience  to  its  voice  sent  the  children  all  scurrying  to  their 
places,  from  which  they  marched  forward  to  their  respective 
classrooms  in  their  usual  convict  silence.  Just  as  the  line 
ahead  was  disappearing  into  the  open  door,  the  well-kept, 
shining  surrey  drove  up  in  haste  and  Camilla  and  Cecile, 
dazzling  in  fresh  white  dresses  and  white  hair  ribbons,  ran 
to  their  places.  Evidently  they  had  heard  nothing.  Camilla 
turned  and  smiled  brightly  at  her  friend  as  she  stepped 
along  in  front  of  her. 

Sylvia  experienced  another  giddy  reaction  of  feeling.  Up 
to  that  moment,  she  had  felt  nothing  but  shocked  and  in- 
tensely self-centered  horror  at  the  disagreeableness  of  what 
had  happened,  and  a  wild  desire  to  run  away  to  some  quiet 


84  The  Bent  Twig 

spot  where  she  would  not  have  to  think  about  it,  where  it 
could  not  make  her  unhappy,  where  her  heart  would  stop 
beating  so  furiously.  What  had  she  ever  done  to  have  such 
a  horrid  thing  happen  in  her  world !  She  had  been  as  much 
repelled  by  Judith's  foaming  violence  as  by  any  other  ele- 
ment of  the  situation.  If  she  could  only  get  away !  Every 
sensitive  nerve  in  her,  tuned  to  a  graceful  and  comely 
order  of  life,  was  rasped  to  anguish  by  the  ugliness  of  it 
all.  Up  to  the  moment  Camilla  came  running  to  her  place 
— this  had  been  the  dominant  impulse  in  the  extreme  con- 
fusion of  Sylvia's  mind. 

But  at  the  sight  of  Camilla  she  felt  bursting  up  through 
this  confusion  of  mind,  and  fiercely  attacking  her  instinct  of 
self-preservation,  a  new  force,  unsuspected,  terribly  alive — 
sympathy  with  Camilla — Camilla,  with  her  dog-like,  timid, 
loving  eyes — Camilla,  who  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  un- 
happiness  except  to  be  born — Camilla,  always  uneasy  with 
tragic  consciousness  of  the  sword  over  her  head,  and  now 
smiling  brightly  with  tragic  unconsciousness  that  it  was 
about  to  fall.  Sylvia's  heart  swelled  almost  unendurably. 
She  was  feeling,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  consciously,  the 
two  natures  under  her  skin,  and  this,  their  first  open 
struggle  for  the  mastery  of  her,  was  like  a  knife  in  her 
side. 

She  sat  during  the  morning  session,  her  eyes  on  the 
clock,  fearing  miserably  the  moment  of  dismissal  at  noon, 
when  she  must  take  some  action — she  who  only  longed  to 
run  away  from  discord  and  dwell  in  peace.  Her  mind 
swung,  pendulum-like,  from  one  extreme  of  feeling  to  an- 
other. Every  time  that  Camilla  smiled  at  her  across  the 
heads  of  the  other  children,  sullenly  oblivious  of  their 
former  favorite,  Sylvia  turned  sick  with  shame  and  pity. 
But  when  her  eyes  rested  on  the  hard,  hostile  faces  which 
made  up  her  world,  the  world  she  had  to  live  in,  the  world 
which  had  been  so  full  of  sweet  and  innocent  happiness  for 
her,  the  world  which  would  now  be  ranged  with  her  or 
against  her  according  to  her  decision  at  noon,  she  was  over- 
come by  a  panic  at  the  very  idea  of  throwing  her  single  self 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self -Evident"    85 

against  this  many-headed  tyrant.  With  an  unspeakable 
terror  she  longed  to  feel  the  safe  walls  of  conformity  about 
her.  There  was  a  battle  with  drawn  swords  in  the  heart  of 
the  little  girl  trying  blindly  to  see  where  the  n  came  in 
41  pneumonia." 

The  clock  crept  on,  past  eleven,  towards  twelve.  Sylvia 
had  come  to  no  decision.  She  could  come  to  no  decision! 
She  felt  herself  consciously  to  be  unable  to  cope  with  the 
crisis.  She  was  too  small,  too  weak,  too  shrinking,  to  make 
herself  iron,  and  resist  an  overwhelming  force. 

It  was  five  minutes  of  twelve.  The  order  was  given  to 
put  away  books  and  pencils  in  the  desks.  Sylvia's  hands 
trembled  so  that  she  could  hardly  close  the  lid. 

"  Turn ! "  said  the  teacher,  in  her  tired,  mechanical  voice. 
The  children  turned  their  stubbed-toed  shoes  out  into  the 
aisle,  their  eyes  menacingly  on  Camilla. 

"  Rise !  "  Like  a  covey  of  partridge,  they  all  stood  up, 
stretching,  twisting  their  bodies,  stiff  and  torpid  after  the 
long  hours  of  immobility. 

"  Pass !  "  Clattering  feet  all  over  the  building  began 
moving  along  the  aisles  and  out  towards  the  cloakrooms. 
Every  one  seized  his  own  wraps  with  a  practised  snatch,  and 
passed  on,  still  in  line,  over  the  dusty  wooden  floors  of  the 
hall,  down  the  ill-built,  resounding  stairs,  out  to  the  play- 
ground— out  to  Sylvia's  ordeal. 

As  she  came  out  blinkingly  into  the  strong  spring  sun- 
light, she  still  had  reached  no  decision.  Her  impulse  was 
to  run,  as  fast  as  she  could,  out  to  the  gate  and  down 
the  street — home !  But  another  impulse  held  her  back. 
The  lines  were  breaking  up.  Camilla  was  turning  about 
with  a  smile  to  speak  to  her.  Malevolent  eyes  were  fixed  on 
them  from  all  sides.  Sylvia  felt  her  indecision  mount  in  a 
cloud  about  her,  like  blinding,  scalding  steam. 

And  then,  there  before  her,  stood  Judith,  her  proud  dark 
little  face  set  in  an  angry  scowl,  her  arm  about  Cecile  Fin- 
gal's  neck. 

Sylvia  never  could  think  what  she  would  have  done  if 
Judith  had  not  been  there ;  but  then,  Judith  was  one  of  the 


86  The  Bent  Twig 

formative  elements  of  her  life — as  much  as  was  the  food 
she  ate  or  the  thoughts  she  had.  What  she  did  was  to  turn 
as  quickly  and  unhesitatingly  as  though  she  had  always 
meant  to  do  it,  put  her  arm  through  Camilla's  and  draw 
her  rapidly  towards  the  gate  where  the  surrey  waited. 
Judith  and  Cecile  followed.  The  crowds  of  astonished,  and 
for  the  moment  silenced,  children  fell  back  before  them. 

Once  she  had  taken  her  action,  Sylvia  saw  that  it  was  the 
only  one  possible.  But  she  was  upheld  by  none  of  the  tra- 
ditional pride  in  a  righteous  action,  nor  by  a  raging  single- 
mindedness  like  Judith's,  who  stalked  along,  her  little  fists 
clenched,  frowning  blackly  to  right  and  left  on  the  other 
children,  evidently  far  more  angry  with  them  than  sym- 
pathetic for  Cecile.  Sylvia  did  not  feel  angry  with  any  one. 
She  was  simply  more  acutely  miserable  than  she  had  ever 
dreamed  possible.  The  distance  to  the  surrey  seemed  end- 
less to  her. 

Her  sudden  rush  had  taken  Camilla  so  completely  by  sur- 
prise that  not  until  they  were  at  the  gate  did  she  catch  her 
breath  to  ask  laughingly :  "  What  in  the  world's  the  matter 
with  you,  Sylvia  ?    You  act  so  queer !  " 

Sylvia  did  not  answer,  every  nerve  bent  on  getting  Camilla 
into  safety,  but  a  little  red-headed  boy  from  the  second 
grade,  who  could  scarcely  talk  plainly,  burst  out  chantingly, 
pointing  his  dirty  forefinger  at  Camilla: 

"  Nigger,  nigger,  never  die, 
Black  face  and  shiny  eye, 
Curly  hair  and  curly  toes — 
Thai's  the  way  the  nigger  goes !  " 

There  was  a  loud  laugh  from  the  assembled  children. 

Camilla  wavered  as  though  she  had  been  struck.  Her 
lovely  face  turned  ashy-gray,  and  she  looked  at  Sylvia  with 
the  eyes  of  one  dying. 

From  the  deepest  of  her  nature,  Sylvia  ^sponded  to  that 
look.  She  forgot  the  crowd, — boldly,  unafraid,  beside  her- 
self with  pity,  she  flung  her  arms  about  her  friend's  neck, 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self -Evident"    87 

hiding  the  white  face  on  her  shoulder.  Judith  ran  up, 
blazing  with  rage,  and  pulled  at  Camilla's  arm.  "  Don't 
give  in !  Don't  give  in !  "  she  screamed.  "  Don't  cry !  Don't 
let  'em  see  you  care !  Sass  'em  back,  why  don't  you  ?  Hit 
that  little  boy  over  the  head!  Sass  them  back,  why  don't 
you?" 

But  Camilla  only  shook  her  head  vehemently  and  shrank 
away  into  the  carriage,  little  Cecile  stumbling  after,  the 
silent  tears  streaming  down  her  face.  The  two  clasped  each 
other,  and  the  surrey  drove  quickly  away,  leaving  the  Mar- 
shall girls  standing  on  the  curb. 

Judith  turned  around  and  faced  the  crowds  of  enemies 
back  of  them.  "  Nasty  old  things !  "  she  cried,  sticking  out 
her  tongue  at  them.  She  was  answered  by  a  yell,  at  which 
she  made  another  face  and  walked  away,  pulling  Sylvia  with 
her.  For  a  few  steps  they  were  followed  by  some  small  boys 
who  yelled  in  chorus : 

"  Judith's  mad  and  I'm  glad, 
And  I  know  what'll  please  her : 
A  bottle  of  wine  to  make  her  shine, 
And  two  little  niggers  to  squeeze  her !  " 

They  were  beginning  this  immemorially  old  chant  over  again 
when  Judith  turned  and  ran  back  towards  them  with  a 
white,  terrible  face  of  wrath.  At  the  sight  they  scattered 
like  scared  chickens. 

Judith  was  so  angry  that  she  was  shivering  all  over  her 
small  body,  and  she  kept  repeating  at  intervals,  in  a  suffo- 
cated voice :  "  Nasty  old  things !  Just  wait  till  I  tell  my 
father  and  mother !  " 

As  they  passed  under  the  beech-trees,  it  seemed  to  Sylvia 
a  physical  impossibility  that  only  that  morning  they  had 
raced  and  scampered  along,  whirling  their  school-books  and 
laughing. 

They  ran  into  the  house,  calling  for  their  parents  in  ex- 
cited voices,  and  pouring  out  incoherent  exclamations. 
Sylvia  cried  a  little  at  the  comforting  sight  of  her  mother's 


88  The  Bent  Twig 

face  and  was  taken  up  on  Mrs.  Marshall's  lap  and  closely 
held.  Judith  never  cried ;  she  had  not  cried  even  when  she 
ran  the  sewing-machine  needle  through  her  thumb;  but 
when  infuriated  she  could  not  talk,  her  stammering  grow- 
ing so  pronounced  that  she  could  not  get  out  a  word,  and  it 
was  Sylvia  who  told  the  facts.  She  was  astonished  to  find 
them  so  few  and  so  quickly  stated,  having  been  under  the 
impression  that  something  of  intense  and  painful  excitement 
had  been  happening  every  moment  of  the  morning. 

But  the  experience  of  her  parents  supplied  the  tragic  back- 
ground of  strange,  passionate  prejudice  which  Sylvia  could 
not  phrase,  and  which  gave  its  sinister  meaning  to  her  briefly 

told  story :  " and  so  Judith  and  I  walked  with  them  out 

to  the  gate,  and  then  that  little  Jimmy  Cohalan  yelled  out, 
'  nigger — nigger  ' — you  know " 

Judith  broke  in,  her  nostrils  distended,  "And  they  never 
sassed  back,  or  hit  anybody  or  anything — just  crumpled  up 
and  cried ! " 

Sylvia  was  aghast  with  bewilderment.  "  Why,  I  thought 
you  were  on  their  side !  " 

"Well,  I  am!"  asserted  Judith,  beginning  to  stammer 
again.  "  But  I  don't  have  to  like  'em  any  better,  do  I — 
because  I  get  mad  when  a  1-1-lot  of  mean,  n-nasty  girls  that 

have  b-b-b-been  s-s-spongin'  off "    She  stopped,  balked 

by  her  infirmity,  and  appealed  to  her  parents  with  a  silent 
look  of  fury. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  Mother  ?  "  asked  Sylvia  despairingly, 
looking  up  into  her  mother's  face  from  the  comfortable 
shelter  of  her  long,  strong  arms.  Mrs.  Marshall  looked 
down  at  her  without  speaking.  It  occurred  to  Sylvia  dis- 
quietingly  that  her  mother's  expression  was  a  little  like 
Judith's.  But  when  Mrs.  Marshall  spoke  it  was  only  to 
say  in  her  usual  voice :  "  Well,  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to 
have  something  to  eat.  Whatever  else  you  do,  don't  let  a 
bad  condition  of  your  body  interfere  with  what's  going  on 
in  your  mind.  Lunch  is  getting  cold — and  don't  talk  about 
trouble  while  you're  eating.  After  you're  through,  Father'll 
tell  you  what  to  do." 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident"    89 

Professor  Marshall  made  a  gesture  of  dismay.  "  Good 
Lord,  Barbara,  don't  put  it  off  on  me !  " 

His  wife  looked  at  him  with  smoldering  eyes.  "  I  cer- 
tainly have  nothing  to  say  that  would  be  fit  for  children  to 
hear !  "  she  said  in  an  energetic  tone,  beginning  to  serve 
the  baked  beans,  which  were  the  main  dish  for  the  day. 

After  the  meal,  always  rather  hasty  because  of  the  chil- 
dren's short  noon-hour,  Sylvia  and  Judith  went  to  sit  on 
their  father's  knees,  while  he  put  an  arm  about  each  and, 
looking  from  one  serious  expectant  face  to  the  other,  began 
his  explanation.  He  cleared  his  throat,  and  hesitated  before 
beginning,  and  had  none  of  his  usual  fluency  as  he  went  on. 
What  he  finally  said  was :  "  Well,  children,  you've  stumbled 
into  about  the  hardest  problem  there  is  in  this  country,  and 
the  honest  truth  is  that  we  don't  any  of  us  know  what's 
right  to  do  about  it.  The  sort  of  thing  that's  just  happened 
in  the  Washington  Street  School  is  likely  to  happen  'most 
anywhere,  and  it's  no  harder  on  these  poor  little  playmates 
of  yours  than  on  all  colored  people.  But  it's  awfully  hard 
on  them  all.  The  best  we  can  do  is  to  hope  that  after  a 
great  many  people  have  lived  and  died,  all  trying  to  do 
their  best,  maybe  folks  will  have  learned  how  to  manage 
better.  Of  course,  if  grown  men  and  women  don't  know 
how  to  help  matters,  you  little  girls  can't  expect  to  fix 
things  either.  All  you  can  do  is  to  go  on  being  nice  to 
Camilla  and " 

Judith  broke  in  here  hotly,  "  You  don't  mean  we  oughtn't 
to  do  something  about  the  girls  being  so  mean  to  them — 
not  letting  Camilla  go  to  the  picnic  and " 

"  What  could  you  do  ?  "  asked  her  father  quietly,  "  that 
would  make  things  any  better  for  Camilla?  If  you  were 
forty  times  as  strong  as  you  are,  you  couldn't  make  the 
other  girls  want  Camilla  at  the  picnic.  It  would  only  spoil 
the  picnic  and  wouldn't  help  Camilla  a  bit."  Professor 
Marshall  meditated  a  moment,  and  went  on,  "  Of  course 
I'm  proud  of  my  little  daughters  for  being  kind  to  friends 
who  are  unhappy  through  no  fault  of  theirs"  (Sylvia 
winced  at  this,  and  thought  of  confessing  that  she  was  very 


90  The  Bent  Twig 

near  running  away  and  leaving  Camilla  to  her  fate),  "and 
I  hope  you'll  go  on  being  as  nice  to  your  unfortunate 
friends  as  ever " 

Judith  said :  "  They  aren't  friends  of  mine !  /  don't  like 
them ! " 

As  not  infrequently  happened,  something  about  Judith's 
attitude  had  been  irritating  her  father,  and  he  now  said 
with  some  severity,  "  Then  it's  a  case  where  Sylvia's  loving 
heart  can  do  more  good  than  your  anger,  though  you  evi- 
dently think  it  very  fine  of  you  to  feel  that ! " 

Judith  looked  down  in  a  stubborn  silence,  and  Sylvia 
drooped  miserably  in  the  consciousness  of  receiving  un- 
deserved praise.  She  opened  her  mouth  to  explain  her 
vacillations  of  the  morning,  but  her  moral  fiber  was  not 
equal  to  the  effort.  She  felt  very  unhappy  to  have  Judith 
blamed  and  herself  praised  when  things  ought  to  have  been 
reversed,  but  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  renounce  her 
father's  good  opinion. 

Professor  Marshall  gave  them  both  a  kiss  and  set  them 
down.  "  It's  twenty  minutes  to  one.  You'd  better  run 
along,  dears,"  he  said. 

After  the  children  had  gone  out,  his  wife,  who  had  pre- 
served an  unbroken  silence,  remarked  dryly,  "  So  that's  the 
stone  we  give  them  when  they  ask  for  bread." 

Professor  Marshall  made  no  attempt  to  defend  himself. 
"  My  dim  generalities  are  pretty  poor  provender  for  honest 
children's  minds,  I  admit,"  he  said  humbly,  "  but  what  else 
have  we  to  give  them  that  isn't  directly  contradicted  by 
our  lives?  There's  no  use  telling  children  something  that 
they  never  see  put  into  practice." 

"  It's  not  impossible,  I  suppose,  to  change  our  lives," 
suggested  his  wife  uncompromisingly. 

Professor  Marshall  drew  a  great  breath  of  dishearten- 
ment.  "  As  long  as  I  can  live  without  thinking  of  that 
element  in  American  life — it's  all  right.  But  when  anything 
brings  it  home — like  this  today — I  feel  that  the  mean  com- 
promise we  all  make  must  be  a  disintegrating  moral  force 
in  the  national  character.    I  feel  like  gathering  up  all  of  you, 


"We  Hold  These  Truths  to  be  Self-Evident"    91 

and  going  away — away  from  the  intolerable  question — to 
Europe — and  earning  the  family  living  by  giving  English 
lessons !  " 

Mrs.  Marshall  cried  out,  "  It  makes  me  feel  like  going 
out  right  here  in  La  Chance  with  a  bomb  in  one  hand  and  a 
rifle  in  the  other ! " 

From  which  difference  of  impression  it  may  perhaps  be 
seen  that  the  two  disputants  were  respectively  the  father 
and  mother  of  Sylvia  and  Judith. 

Mrs.  Marshall  rose  and  began  clearing  away  the  luncheon 
dishes.  As  she  disappeared  into  the  kitchen,  she  paused  a 
moment  behind  the  door,  a  grim,  invisible  voice,  remarking, 
"And  what  we  shall  do  is,  of  course,  simply  nothing  at 

aiir 


CHAPTER  VIII 
SABOTAGE 

Sylvia  and  Judith  walked  to  school  in  a  profound  silence. 
Sylvia  was  shrinking  with  every  nerve  from  the  ordeal  of 
facing  again  those  four  hundred  hostile  faces ;  from  the  new 
and  painful  relations  with  her  playmates  which  lay  before 
her.  She  was  now  committed  irrevocably  to  the  cause  of 
the  Fingals,  and  she  felt  a  terrified  doubt  of  having  enough 
moral  strength  to  stick  to  that  position. 

For  the  moment  the  problem  was  settled  by  their  arriv- 
ing at  the  schoolhouse  almost  too  late.  The  lines  were  just 
marching  into  the  building,  and  both  girls  barely  slipped  into 
their  places  in  time.  Sylvia  noticed  with  relief  that  Camilla 
was  absent. 

All  the  Five  A  girls  had  paper  bags  or  pasteboard  boxes, 
and  in  the  air  of  the  Five  A  cloakroom  was  a  strong  smell 
of  vinegar.  Gretchen  Schmidt's  pickles  had  begun  to  soak 
through  the  bag,  and  she  borrowed  the  cover  of  a  box  to  set 
them  in.  These  sounds  and  smells  recalled  the  picnic  to 
Sylvia's  mind,  the  picnic  to  which  she  had  been  looking 
forward  with  such  inexpressible  pleasure.  For  an  instant 
she  was  aghast  to  think  that  she  had  forgotten  her  bananas, 
tied  up  all  ready  at  home  on  the  sideboard.  But  the  next 
instant  she  thought  sadly  that  she  probably  would  not  be 
welcome  at  the  picnic.  She  went  to  her  seat  and  sat  for- 
lorn through  the  changing  lessons  of  the  afternoon. 
»  The  teacher  ground  out  the  half-hour  lessons  wearily,  her 
eyes  on  the  clock,  as  unaware  of  the  crisis  in  her  class  as 
though  she  were  in  another  planet.  At  four  o'clock  Sylvia 
filed  out  with  the  other  children  to  the  cloakroom,  but  there 
was  not  the  usual  quick,  practised  grab,  each  for  his  own  be- 
longings.     The    girls    remained    behind,    exclaiming    and 

92 


Sabotage  93 

lamenting.  Such  a  clamor  arose  that  the  teacher  came  hur- 
rying in,  anxious  for  the  reputation  for  good  behavior  of 
her  class.  Good  behavior  in  the  Washington  Street  School, 
as  in  a  penitentiary,  was  gauged  by  the  degree  of  silence  and 
immobility  achieved  by  the  inmates. 

The  girls  ran  to  Miss  Miller,  crying  out,  "  Somebody's 
stolen  our  lunches, — we  left  them  here — all  our  boxes  and 
things — and  they're  all  gone !  " 

Sylvia  hung  back  in  the  door  to  the  schoolroom,  apart 
from  the  others,  half  relieved  by  the  unexpected  event  which 
diverted  attention  from  her. 

One  of  the  boys  who  had  gone  ahead  in  the  line  now 
came  back,  a  large  cucumber  stuck  in  the  corner  of  his 
mouth  like  a  fat,  green  cigar.  He  announced  with  evident 
satisfaction  in  the  girls'  misfortune  that  the  steps  were 
strewn  with  pickles.  The  bag  must  have  burst  entirely  as 
they  were  being  carried  downstairs.  Gretchen  Schmidt  be- 
gan to  weep, — "  all  them  good  pickles !  "    One  of  the 

girls  flew  at  the  boy  who  brought  the  bad  news.  "  I  just 
bet  you  did  it  yourself,  Jimmy  Weaver,  you  an'  Frank  Ken- 
nedy. You  boys  were  mad  anyhow  because  we  didn't  ask 
you  to  come  to  the  picnic." 

Jimmy's  face  assumed  the  most  unmistakably  genuine 
expression  of  astonishment  and  aggrieved  innocence.  "  Aw, 
you're  off  yer  base !  I  wouldn't  ha'  gone  to  your  darned  old 
picnic — an'  wasn't  I  in  the  room  every  minute  this  after- 
noon ?  " 

"  No,  you  weren't — you  weren't !  "  More  of  the  girls  had 
come  to  the  attack,  and  now  danced  about  the  boy,  hurling 
accusations  at  him.  "  You  got  excused  to  get  a  drink  of 
water !  And  so  did  Pete  Roberts !  You  did  it  then !  You 
did  it  then!    You  did " 

"Hush,  children!  Not  so  loud!"  said  Miss  Miller. 
"  You'll  have  the  Principal  down  here!" 

At  this  terrible  threat  the  children,  in  spite  of  their  heat, 
lowered  their  voices.  Jimmy  was  beginning  an  angry,  half- 
alarmed  protest — "  Aw,  'twas  a  tramp  must  ha'  got  in  an* 
saw "  when  he  was  pushed  out  of  the  way  by  a  small, 


94  The  Bent  Twig 

vigorous  hand.  Judith  Marshall  walked  in,  her  face  very 
pale.  She  was  breathing  hard,  and  through  her  parted  lips, 
as  though  she  had  been  running  fast,  her  small  white  teeth 
showed  like  those  of  an  enraged  squirrel.  "  I  threw  your 
picnic  things  in  the  river,"  she  said. 

The  older  children  recoiled  from  this  announcement,  and 
from  the  small,  tense  figure.  Even  the  teacher  kept  her 
distance,  as  though  Judith  were  some  dangerous  little  ani- 
mal. 

"  What  in  the  world  did  you  do  that  for  ?  "  she  asked  in 
a  tone  of  stupefaction. 

"  Because  they  are  n-n-nasty,  mean  things,"  said  Judith, 
"  and  if  they  weren't  going  to  let  C-C-Camilla  go  to  the 
picnic,  I  wasn't  going  to  let  them  have  any  picnic ! " 

The  teacher  turned  around  to  Sylvia,  now  almost  as 
white  as  her  sister,  and  said  helplessly,  "  Sylvia,  do  you 
know  what  she's  talking  about  ?  " 

Sylvia  went  forward  and  took  Judith's  hand.  She  was 
horrified  beyond  words  by  what  Judith  had  done,  but  Judith 
was  her  little  sister.  "  Yes,  ma'am,"  she  said,  to  Miss 
Miller's  question,  speaking,  for  all  her  agitation,  quickly 
and  fluently  as  was  her  habit,  though  not  very  coherently. 
"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  know.  Everybody  was  saying  this  morning 
that  the  Fingals'  mother  was  a  negro,  and  so  the  girls 
weren't  going  to  invite  Camilla  to  the  picnic,  and  it  made 
Judith  mad." 

"  Why,  she  didn't  know  Camilla  very  well,  did  she  ? " 
asked  the  teacher,  astonished. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Sylvia,  still  speaking  quickly,  although 
the  tears  of  fright  were  beginning  to  stand  in  her  eyes.  "  It 
just  made  her  mad  because  the  girls  weren't  going  to  in- 
vite her  because  she  didn't  think  it  was  anyhow  hei 
fault." 

"  Whose  fault !  "  cried  the  teacher,  completely  lost. 

"  Camilla's,"  quavered  Sylvia,  the  tears  beginning  to  fall. 

There  was  a  pause.  "Well — I  never!"  exclaimed  the 
teacher,  whose  parents  had  come  from  New  England.  She 
was  entirely  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  treat  this  unprece- 


Sabotage  95 

dented  situation,  and  like  other  potentates  with  a  long  habit 
of  arbitrary  authority,  she  covered  her  perplexity  with  a 
smart  show  of  decision.  "  You  children  go  right  straight 
home,  along  out  of  the  building  this  minute,"  she  com- 
manded. "  You  know  you're  not  allowed  to  loiter  around 
after  school-hours.  Sylvia  and  Judith,  stay  here.  I'm 
going  to  take  you  up  to  the  Principal's  office." 

The  girls  and  Jimmy  Weaver  ran  clattering  down  the 
stairs,  in  an  agreeably  breathless  state  of  excitement.  In 
their  opinion  the  awfulness  of  the  situation  had  been  ade- 
quately recognized  by  the  teacher  and  signaled  by  the 
equally  awful  expedient  of  a  visit  to  the  Principal's  office, 
the  last  resort  in  the  case  of  the  rarely  occurring  insubordi- 
nate boy. 

Because  Miss  Miller  had  not  the  least  idea  what  to  say  in 
an  event  so  far  out  of  the  usual  routine,  she  talked  a  great 
deal  during  the  trip  through  the  empty  halls  and  staircases 
up  to  the  Principal's  office  on  the  top  floor;  chiefly  to  the 
effect  that  as  many  years  as  she  had  taught,  never  had 
she  encountered  such  a  bad  little  girl  as  Judith.  Judith 
received  this  in  stony  silence,  but  Sylvia's  tears  fell  fast. 
All  the  years  of  her  docile  school  existence  had  trained  her 
in  the  habit  of  horror  at  insubordination  above  every  other 
crime.  She  felt  as  disgraced  as  though  Judith  had  been 
caught  stealing, — perhaps  more  so. 

Miss  Miller  knocked  at  the  door;  the  Principal,  stooping 
and  hollow-chested,  opened  it  and  stood  confronting  with 
tired,  kind  eyes  the  trio  before  him — the  severe  woman, 
with  her  pathetic,  prematurely  old  face  and  starved  flat  body, 
the  pretty  little  girl  hanging  down  her  head  and  weeping, 
the  smaller  child  who  gave  him  one  black  defiant  look 
and  then  gazed  past  him  out  of  the  window. 

"  Well,  Miss  Miller ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I've  brought  you  a  case  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with,',  she  began.  "  This  is  Judith  Marshall,  in  the  third 
grade,  and  she  has  just  done  one  of  the  naughtiest  things 
I  ever  heard  of " 

When  she  had  finished  her  recital,  "  How  do  you  know 


96  The  Bent  Twig 

this  child  did  it  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Bristol,  always  his  first  ques- 
tion in  cases  between  teachers  and  pupils. 

"  She  was  so  brazen  as  to  come  right  back  and  tell  us  so," 
said  Miss  Miller,  her  tone  growing  more  and  more  con- 
demnatory. 

Judith's  face,  capable  of  such  rare  and  positive  beauty, 
had  now  shut  down  into  a  hard,  repellent  little  mask  of  hate. 
Mr.  Bristol  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then 
at  Sylvia,  sobbing,  her  arm  crooked  over  her  face,  hiding 
everything  but  her  shining  curls.  "  And  what  has  this  little 
girl  to  do  with  anything  ?  "  he  asked. 

"This  is  Sylvia  Marshall,  Judith's  sister,  and  of  course 
she  feels  dreadfully  about  Judith's  doing  such  a  dreadful 
thing,"  explained  Miss  Miller  inelegantly. 

Mr.  Bristol  walked  back  to  his  desk  and  sat  down. 
"  Well,  I  think  I  needn't  keep  you  any  longer,  Miss  Miller," 
he  said.  "  If  you  will  just  leave  the  little  girls  here  for  a 
while  perhaps  I  can  decide  what  to  do  about  it." 

Thus  mildly  but  unmistakably  dismissed,  the  teacher 
took  her  departure,  pushing  Sylvia  and  Judith  inside  the 
door  and  shutting  it  audibly  after  her.  She  was  so  tired 
as  she  walked  down  the  stairs  that  she  ached,  and  she 
thought  to  herself,  "  As  if  things  weren't  hard  enough  with- 
out their  going  and  being  naughty !  " 

Inside  the  room  there  was  a  moment's  silence,  filled  al- 
most palpably  by  Sylvia's  quivering  alarm,  and  by  Judith's 
bitter  mental  resistance.  Mr.  Bristol  drew  out  a  big  book 
from  the  shelf  over  his  desk  and  held  it  out  to  Sylvia.  "  I 
guess  you  all  got  pretty  excited  about  this,  didn't  you  ?  " 
he  said,  smiling  wisely  at  the  child.  "  You  and  your  sister 
sit  down  and  look  at  the  pictures  in  this  for  a  while,  till 
you  get  cooled  off,  and  then  I'll  hear  all  about  it." 

Sylvia  took  the  book  obediently,  and  drew  Judith  to  a 
chair,  opening  the  pages,  brushing  away  her  tears,  and  try- 
ing to  go  through  the  form  of  looking  at  the  illustrations, 
which  were  of  the  birds  native  to  the  region.  In  spite  of 
her  emotion,  the  large,  brightly  colored  pictures  did  force 
their  way  through  her  eye  to  her  brain,  instinct  in  every 


Sabotage  97 

fiber  with  the  modern  habit  of  taking  in  impressions  from 
the  printed  page ;  and  for  years  afterwards  she  could  have 
told  the  names  of  the  birds  they  saw  during  that  long,  still 
half-hour,  broken  by  no  sound  but  the  tap-tap-tap  of  Mr. 
Bristol's  typewriter.  He  did  not  once  look  towards  them. 
This  was  partly  a  matter  of  policy,  and  partly  because  he 
was  trying  desperately  to  get  a  paper  written  for  the  next 
Convention  of  Public  School  Principals,  which  he  was  to 
address  on  the  "  Study  of  Arithmetic  in  the  Seventh  Grade." 
He  had  very  fixed  and  burning  ideas  about  the  teaching  of 
arithmetic  in  the  seventh  grade,  which  he  longed  with  a  true 
believer's  fervor  to  see  adopted  by  all  the  schools  in  the 
country.  He  often  said  that  if  they  would  only  do  so,  the 
study  of  arithmetic  would  be  revolutionized  in  a  decade. 

Judith  sat  beside  her  sister,  not  pretending  to  look  at  the 
book,  although  the  rigidity  of  her  face  insensibly  softened 
somewhat  in  the  contagious  quiet  of  the  room. 

When  they  had  turned  over  the  last  page  and  shut  the 
book,  Mr.  Bristol  faced  them  again,  leaning  back  in  his 
swivel-chair,  and  said :  "  Now,  children — all  quiet  ?  One  of 
you  begin  at  the  beginning  and  tell  me  how  it  happened." 
Judith's  lips  shut  together  in  a  hard  line,  so  Sylvia  began, 
surprised  to  find  her  nerves  steadied  and  calmed  by  the 
silent  half-hour  of  inaction  back  of  her.  She  told  how  they 
were  met  that  morning  by  the  news,  how  the  children 
shouted  after  Camilla  as  she  got  into  the  carriage,  how  the 
Five  A  girls  had  decided  to  exclude  her  from  the  picnic, 
how  angry  Judith  had  been,  and  then — then — she  knew  no 
more  to  tell  beyond  the  bare  fact  of  Judith's  passionate 
misdeed. 

Mr.  Bristol  began  to  cross-examine  Judith  in  short,  quiet 
sentences.  "  What  made  you  think  of  throwing  the  things 
into  the  river  ?  " 

"  I  was  afraid  they'd  get  them  back  somehow  if  I  didn't," 
said  Judith,  as  if  stating  a  self-evident  argument. 

"  Where  did  you  go  to  throw  them  in?  To  the  Monroe 
Street  bridge?" 

"No,  I  didn't  have  time  to  go  so  far.    I  just  went  down 


98  The  Bent  Twig 

through  Randolph  Street  to  the  bank  and  there  was  a  boat 
there  tied  to  a  tree,  and  I  got  in  and  pushed  it  out  as  far  as 
the  rope  would  go  and  dropped  the  things  in  from  the  other 
end." 

Sylvia  caught  her  breath  in  terror  at  this  recital.  The 
Piquota  river  ran  swift  and  turbid  and  deep  between  high 
banks  at  that  point.  "  Weren't  you  afraid  to  venture  out  in 
a  boat  all  by  yourself  ?  "  asked  the  man,  looking  at  Judith's 
diminutive  person. 

"  Yes,  I  was,"  said  Judith  unexpectedly. 

Mr.  Bristol  said  "  Oh "  and  stood  in  thought  for  a 

moment.  Some  one  knocked  on  the  door,  and  he  turned 
to  open  it.  At  the  sight  of  the  tall  figure  standing  there  in 
his  pepper-and-salt  suit,  Sylvia's  heart  gave  a  great  bound 
of  incredulous  rapture.  The  appearance  of  a  merciful 
mediator  on  the  Day  of  Judgment  could  not  have  given  her 
keener  or  more  poignant  relief.  She  and  Judith  both  ran 
headlong  to  their  father,  catching  his  hands  in  theirs,  cling- 
ing to  his  arms  and  pressing  their  little  bodies  against  his. 
The  comfort  Sylvia  felt  in  his  mere  physical  presence  was 
inexpressible.  It  is  one  of  the  pure  golden  emotions  of 
childhood,  which  no  adult  can  ever  recover,  save  perhaps  a 
mystic  in  a  moment  of  ecstatic  contemplation  of  the  power 
and  loving-kindness  of  his  God. 

Professor  Marshall  put  out  his  hand  to  the  Principal, 
introducing  himself,  and  explained  that  he  and  his  wife  had 
been  a  little  uneasy  when  the  children  had  not  returned 
from  school.  Mr.  Bristol  shook  the  other's  hand,  saying 
that  he  knew  of  him  through  mutual  acquaintances  and 
assuring  him  that  he  could  not  have  come  at  a  more  oppor- 
tune moment.  "  Your  little  daughter  has  given  me  a  hard 
nut  to  crack.     I  need  advice." 

Both  men  sat  down,  Sylvia  and  Judith  still  close  to  their 
father's  side,  and  Mr.  Bristol  told  what  had  happened  in  a 
concise,  colorless  narration,  ending  with  Judith's  exploit  with 
the  boat.  "  Now  what  would  you  do  in  my  place  ?  "  he 
said,  like  one  proposing  an  insoluble  riddle. 

Sylvia,  seeing  the  discussion  going  on  in  such  a  quiet,  con- 


Sabotage  99 

versational  tone,  ventured  in  a  small  voice  the  suggestion 
that  Judith  had  done  well  to  confess,  since  that  had  saved 
others  from  suspicion.  "  The  girls  were  sure  that  Jimmy- 
Weaver  had  done  it." 

"  Was  that  why  you  came  back  and  told  ? "  asked  Pro- 
fessor Marshall. 

"  No,"  said  Judith  bluntly,  "  I  never  thought  of  that.  I 
wanted  to  be  sure  they  knew  why  it  happened." 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances.  Professor  Marshall 
said :  "  Didn't  you  understand  me  when  I  told  you  at  noon 
that  even  if  you  could  make  the  girls  let  Camilla  go  to  the 
picnic,  she  wouldn't  have  a  good  time  ?  You  couldn't  make 
them  like  to  have  her  ?  " 

u  Yes,  I  understood  all  right,"  said  Judith,  looking  straight 
at  her  father,  "but  if  she  couldn't  have  a  good  time — and 
no  fault  of  hers — I  wasn't  going  to  let  them  have  a  good 
time  either.  I  wasn't  trying  to  make  them  want  her.  I  was 
trying  to  get  even  with  them !  " 

Professor  Marshall  looked  stern.  "  That  is  just  what  I 
feared,  Judith,  and  that  hateful  spirit  is  the  bad  thing  about 
the  whole  business."  He  turned  to  the  Principal :  "  How 
many  girls  were  going  to  the  picnic  ?  " 

The  other,  with  a  wide  gesture,  disavowed  any  knowl- 
edge of  the  matter.    "  Good  Heavens  !  how  should  I  know  ?  " 

Sylvia  counted  rapidly.     "  Fourteen,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Bristol,  how  would  this  do  for  a  punishment  ? 
Judith  has  worked  in  various  ways,  digging  up  dandelions 
from  the  lawn,  weeding  flower-beds,  running  errands — you 
know— all  the  things  children  do — and  she  has  a  little  more 
than  five  dollars  in  her  iron  savings-bank,  that  she  has  been 
saving  for  more  than  a  year  to  buy  a  collie  puppy.  Would 
you  be  satisfied  if  she  took  that  money,  divided  it  into  four- 
teen parts,  and  took  it  herself  in  person  to  each  of  the 
girls?" 

During  this  proposal  Judith's  face  had  taken  on  an  expres- 
sion of  utter  dismay.  She  looked  more  childlike,  more  like 
her  years  than  at  any  moment  during  the  interview.  "  Oh, 
Father! "  she  implored  him,  with  a  deep  note  of  entreaty. 


ioo  The  Bent  Twig 

He  did  not  look  at  her,  but  over  her  head  at  the  Prin- 
cipal, who  was  rising  from  his  chair  with  every  indication  of 
relief  on  his  face.  "  Nothing  could  be  better,"  he  said. 
That  will  be  just  right — every  one  will  be  satisfied.  And 
I'll  just  say  for  the  sake  of  discipline  that  little  Judith  shan't 
come  back  to  school  till  she  has  done  her  penance.  Of 
course  she  can  get  it  all  done  before  supper-time  tonight. 
All  our  families  live  in  the  vicinity  of  the  school."  He 
was  shaking  Professor  Marshall's  hand  again  and  edging 
him  towards  the  door,  his  mind  once  more  on  his  paper, 
hoping  that  he  might  really  finish  it  before  night — if  only 
there  were  no  more  interruptions ! 

His  achievement  in  divining  the  mental  processes  of  two 
children  hysterical  with  excitement,  his  magnetic  taming 
of  those  fluttering  little  hearts,  his  inspired  avoidance  of  a 
fatal  false  step  at  a  critical  point  in  the  moral  life  of  two 
human  beings  in  the  making — all  this  seemed  as  nothing 
to  him — an  incident  of  the  day's  routine  already  forgotten. 
He  conceived  that  his  real  usefulness  to  society  lay  in  the 
reform  of  arithmetic-teaching  in  the  seventh  grade,  and  he 
turned  back  to  his  arguments  with  the  ardor  of  the  great 
landscape  painter  who  aspires  to  be  a  champion  at  billiards. 

Professor  Marshall  walked  home  in  silence  with  his  two 
daughters,  explained  the  matter  to  his  wife,  and  said  that 
he  and  Sylvia  would  go  with  Judith  on  her  uncomfortable 
errand.  Mrs.  Marshall  listened  in  silence  and  went  herself 
to  get  the  little  bank  stuffed  full  of  painfully  earned  pennies 
and  nickels.  Then  she  bade  them  into  the  kitchen  and  gave 
Judith  and  Sylvia  each  a  cookie  and  a  glass  of  milk. 

She  made  no  comment  whatever  on  the  story,  or  on  her 
husband's  sentence  for  the  culprit,  but  just  as  the  three 
were  going  out  of  the  door,  she  ran  after  them,  caught 
Judith  in  her  arms,  and  gave  her  a  passionate  kiss. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday,  and  it  was  suggested  that 
Judith  and  Sylvia  carry  on  their  campaign  by  going  to  see 
the  Fingals  and  spending  the  morning  playing  with  them 
as  though  nothing  had  happened. 


Sabotage  101 

As  they  approached  the  house,  somewhat  perturbed  by 
the  prospect,  they  saw  with  surprise  that  the  windows  were 
bare  of  the  heavy  yellow  lace  curtains  which  had  hung  in 
the  parlor,  darkening  that  handsomely  furnished  room  to 
a  rich  twilight.  They  went  up  on  the  porch,  and  Judith 
rang  the  bell  resolutely,  while  Sylvia  hung  a  little  back  of 
her.  From  this  position  she  could  see  into  the  parlor,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Why,  Judy,  this  isn't  the  right  house — nobody 
lives  here !  "  The  big  room  was  quite  empty,  the  floors  bare 
of  the  large  soft  rugs,  and  as  the  children  pressed  their  faces 
to  the  pane,  they  could  see  through  an  open  door  into  a 
bedroom  also  dismantled  and  deserted. 

They  ran  around  the  house  to  the  back  door  and  knocked 
on  it.  There  was  no  answer.  Judith  turned  the  knob,  the 
door  opened,  and  they  stood  in  what  had  been  unmistakably 
the  Fjngals'  kitchen.  Evidence  of  wild  haste  and  confusion 
was  everywhere  about  them — the  floor  was  littered  with 
excelsior,  the  shelves  half  cleared  and  half  occupied  still 
with  cooking  supplies,  a  packing-box  partly  filled  with 
kitchenware  which  at  the  last  moment  the  fugitives  had 
evidently  decided  to  abandon. 

The  little  girls  stood  in  this  silent  desolation,  looking 
about  them  with  startled  eyes.  A  lean  mother-cat  came 
and  rubbed  her  thin,  pendent  flanks  against  their  legs,  purr- 
ing and  whining.  Three  kittens  skirmished  joyfully  in  the 
excelsior,  waylaying  one  another  in  ambush  and  springing 
out  with  bits  of  the  yellow  fibers  clinging  to  their  woolly 
soft  fur. 

"  They've  gone! "  breathed  Sylvia.  "  They've  gone  away 
for  good ! " 

Judith  nodded,  even  her  bold  and  unimaginative  spirit 
somewhat  daunted  by  the  ghostly  silence  of  the  house. 
Sylvia  tiptoed  to  the  swinging-door  and  pushed  it  open. 
Yes,  there  was  the  pantry,  like  the  kitchen,  in  chaotic  dis- 
order, tissue  paper  and  excelsior  thick  on  the  floor,  and 
entangled  with  it  the  indescribable  jumble  of  worthless,  dis- 
connected objects  always  tumbled  together  by  a  domestic 
crisis  like  a  fire  or  a  removal — old  gloves,  whisk-brooms, 


rcz  The  Bent  Twig 

hat-forms,  lamps,  magazines,  tarnished  desk-fittings.  The 
sight  was  so  eloquent  of  panic  haste  that  Sylvia  let  the  door 
swing  shut,  and  ran  back  into  the  kitchen. 

Judith  was  pointing  silently  to  a  big  paper  bag  on  the 
shelf.  It  had  been  tossed  there  with  some  violence  evi- 
dently, for  the  paper  had  burst  and  the  contents  had  cas- 
caded out  on  the  shelf  and  on  the  floor — the  rich,  be-raisined 
cookies  which  Camilla  was  to  have  taken  to  the  picnic. 
Sylvia  felt  the  tears  stinging  her  eyelids,  and  pulled  Judith 
out  of  the  tragic  house.  They  stood  for  a  moment  in  the 
yard,  beside  a  bed  of  flowering  crocuses,  brilliant  in  the 
sun.  The  forsaken  house  looked  down  severely  at  them 
from  its  blank  window^:  Judith  was  almost  instantly  re- 
lieved of  mental  tension  by  the  outdoor  air,  and  stooped 
down  unconcernedly  to  tie  her  shoe.  She  broke  the  lacing 
and  had  to  sit  down,  take  it  out  of  the  shoe,  tie  it,  and 
put  it  back  again.  The  operation  took  some  time,  during 
which  Sylvia  stood  still,  her  mind  whirling. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  steadily  forward-going  life  there 
was  a  sharp,  irrevocable  break.  Something  which  had  been 
yesterday  was  now  no  more.  She  would  never  see  Camilla 
again,  she  who  recalled  Camilla's  look  of  anguish  as  though 
they  still  stood  side  by  side.  Her  heart  filled  with  unspeak- 
able thankfulness  that  she  had  put  her  arms  around  Ca- 
milla's neck  at  that  supreme  last  moment.  That  had  not 
been  Judith's  doing.  That  had  come  from  her  own  heart. 
Unconsciously  she  had  laid  the  first  stone  in  the  wall  of  self- 
respect  which  might  in  the  future  fortify  her  against  her 
weaknesses. 

She  stood  looking  up  blindly  at  the  house,  shivering  again 
at  the  recollection  of  its  echoing,  empty  silence.  The  mo- 
ment was  one  she  never  forgot.  Standing  there  in  that 
commonplace  backyard,  staring  up  at  a  house  like  any  one 
of  forty  near  her,  she  felt  her  heart  grow  larger.  In  that 
moment,  tragedy,  mystery,  awe,  and  pity  laid  their  shadowy 
fingers  on  her  shining  head. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  END  OF  CHILDHOOD 

That  afternoon  a  couple  of  children  who  came  to  play 
in  the  Marshall  orchard  brought  news  that  public  opinion, 
after  the  fashion  of  that  unstable  weathercock,  was  veering 
rapidly,  and  blowing  from  a  wholly  unexpected  quarter. 
"  My  papa  says,"  reported  Gretchen  Schmidt,  who  never 
could  keep  anything  to  herself,  even  though  it  might  be  by 
no  means  to  her  advantage  to  proclaim  it — "  my  papa  says 
that  he  thinks  the  way  American  people  treats  colored  peo- 
ples is  just  fierce ;  and  he  says  if  he'd  ha'  known  about  our 
not  letting  Camilla  go  to  the  picnic,  he'd  ha'  taken  the 
trouble  to  me  ■  mit  der  Hachen  Hand  schlagen/  That 
means  he'd  have  spanked  me  good  and  plenty." 

Maria  Perkins,  from  the  limb  where  she  hung  by  her 
knees,  responded,  "  Yup,  my  Uncle  Eben  says  he  likes 
Judy's  spunk." 

"  I  guess  he  wouldn't  have,  if  it'd  ha'  been  his  pickles ! " 
Gretchen  made  a  last  stand  against  the  notorious  injustice  of 
fickle  adult  prejudices. 

But  the  tide  had  begun  to  turn.  On  Monday  morning 
Sylvia  and  Judith  found  themselves  far  from  ostracized, 
rather  the  center  of  much  respectful  finger-pointing  on  the 
part  of  children  from  the  other  grades  who  had  never  paid 
the  least  attention  to  them  before.  And  finally  when  the 
Principal,  passing  majestically  from  room  to  room  in  his 
daily  tour  of  inspection,  paused  in  his  awful  progress  and 
spoke  to  Judith  by  name,  asking  her  quite  familiarly  and 
condescendingly  what  cities  you  would  pass  through  if  you 
went  from  Chicago  to  New  Orleans,  the  current  set  once 
and  for  all  in  the  other  direction.  No  mention  was  ever 
made  of  the  disappearance  of  the  Fingals,  and  the  Marshall 
children  found  their  old  places  waiting  for  them. 


104  The  Bent  Twig 

It  was  not  long  before  Judith  had  all  but  forgotten  the 
episode;  but  Sylvia,  older  and  infinitely  more  impression- 
able, found  it  burned  irrevocably  into  her  memory.  For 
many  and  many  a  week,  she  did  not  fall  asleep  without 
seeing  Camilla's  ashy  face  of  wretchedness.  And  it  was 
years  before  she  could  walk  past  the  house  where  the  Fin- 
gals  had  lived,  without  feeling  sick. 

Her  life  was,  however,  brimming  with  active  interests 
which  occupied  her,  mind  and  body.  There  was  rarely  a 
day  when  a  troop  of  children  did  not  swarm  over  the  Mar- 
shall house  and  barn,  playing  and  playing  and  playing  with 
that  indomitable  zest  in  life  which  is  the  birthright  of  human- 
ity before  the  fevers  and  chills  of  adolescence  begin.  Sylvia 
and  Judith,  moreover,  were  required  to  assume  more  and 
more  of  the  responsibility  of  the  housework,  while  their 
mother  extracted  from  the  Marshall  five  acres  an  ever  in- 
creasing largesse  of  succulent  food.  Sylvia's  seances  with 
old  Reinhardt  and  the  piano  were  becoming  serious  affairs : 
for  it  was  now  tentatively  decided  that  she  was  to  earn  her 
living  by  teaching  music.  There  were  many  expeditions  on 
foot  with  their  mother,  for  Mrs.  Marshall  had  become,  little 
by  little,  chief  nurse  and  adviser  to  all  the  families  of  the 
neighborhood ;  and  on  her  errands  of  service  one  of  her 
daughters  was  needed  to  carry  supplies  and  act  as  assistant. 
And  finally,  as  the  children  grew  older,  and  the  family  tradi- 
tion of  bookishness  took  hold  of  them,  there  were  shelves 
and  shelves  to  be  devoured,  a  strange  mixture — Thackeray, 
Maeterlinck,  Fielding,  Hakluyt,  Ibsen,  Dickens,  Ruskin, 
Shaw,  Austen,  Moliere,  Defoe,  Cervantes,  Shakespeare, — 
the  children  dipped,  or  tasted  or  swallowed  whole,  according 
to  their  temperaments  and  the  books  they  happened  on. 

When  Sylvia  was  thirteen,  almost  fourteen  years  old, 
she  "  graduated  "  from  the  eighth  grade  of  the  public  schools 
and  was  ready  to  enter  the  High  School.  But  after  a  good 
many  family  councils,  in  most  of  which,  after  the  unreticent 
Marshall  manner,  she  herself  was  allowed  to  be  present,  it 
was  decided  not  to  send  her  to  the  huge  new  Central  High 
School,  which  had  cost  La  Chance  such  a  big  slice  of  its 


The  End  of  Childhood  105 

taxes,  but  to  prepare  her  at  home  for  her  course  at  the 
State  University.  She  had  been  growing  very  fast,  was  a 
little  thin  and  white,  and  had  been  outgrowing  her  strength. 
This  at  least  was  the  reason  given  out  to  inquirers.  In 
reality  her  father's  prejudice  against  High  School  life  for 
adolescents  was  the  determining  cause.  In  the  course  of 
his  University  work  he  was  obliged  to  visit  a  good  many 
High  Schools,  and  had  acquired  a  violent  prejudice  against 
the  stirring  social  life  characteristic  of  those  institutions. 

Sylvia's  feelings  about  this  step  aside  from  the  beaten 
track  were,  like  many  of  Sylvia's  feelings,  decidedly  mixed. 
She  was  drawn  towards  the  High  School  by  the  suction  of 
the  customary.  A  large  number  of  her  classmates  expected 
as  a  matter  of  course  to  pass  on  in  the  usual  way;  but, 
with  an  uneasy  qualm,  half  pride  and  half  apprehension, 
Sylvia  was  beginning  to  feel  her  difference  from  ordinary 
children.  She  was  not  altogether  sorry  to  say  good-bye  to 
her  playmates,  with  whom  she  no  longer  had  much  in 
common.  She  would  miss  the  fun  of  class-life,  of  course; 
but  there  was  a  certain  distinction  involved  in  being  edu- 
cated "  differently."  She  might  be  queer,  but  sin^e  she  was 
apparently  fated  to  be  queer,  she  might  as  v  11  not  be 
"  common  "  as  well.  Finally,  because  she  was  still,  at  four- 
teen, very  much  of  a  child,  the  scale  was  tipped  by  her 
thinking  what  fun  it  would  be  to  go  down-town  on  errands 
in  school  hours.  Charles  Lamb,  lost  in  painful  wonder  at 
his  own  leisure  after  thirty-six  years  of  incessant  office- 
hours,  could  savor  no  more  acutely  than  an  American 
school-child  the  exquisite  flavor  of  freedom  at  an  hour 
formerly  dedicated  to  imprisonment. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  during  the  next  three  years  Sylvia's 
time  was  more  constantly  occupied  than  when  there  was  a 
fixed  time-limit  to  her  studies.  Her  teachers  were  always 
about  her,  and  lightly  as  the  new  yoke  pressed,  she  wore  it 
practically  without  intermission.  Her  immersion  in  the 
ideals,  the  standards,  the  concepts  of  her  parents  was  com- 
plete, engulfing.  Somebody  was  nearly  always  teaching  her 
something.    She  studied  history  and  Latin  with  her  father; 


106  The  Bent  Twig 

mathematics  with  her  mother.  She  learned  to  swim,  to 
play  tennis,  to  ride  in  the  summer-time,  and  to  skate  on  the 
frozen  swimming-pool  in  winter,  all  without  stirring  from 
home.  Old  Reinhardt  was  supposed  to  come  twice  a  week 
to  give  her  a  piano-lesson,  but  actually  he  dropped  in  almost 
every  day  to  smoke  meditatively  and  keep  a  watchful  ear 
on  her  practising. 

Although  during  those  years  she  was  almost  literally 
rooted  to  the  Marshall  soil,  watered  by  Marshall  convic- 
tions, and  fed  by  Marshall  information,  the  usual  miracle 
of  irresistibly  individual  growth  went  silently  and  uncon- 
sciously forward  in  her.  She  was  growing  up  to  be  herself, 
and  not  her  mother  or  her  father,  little  as  any  one  in  her 
world  suspected  the  presence  of  this  unceasingly  recurrent 
phenomenon  of  growth.  She  was  alive  to  all  the  impres- 
sions reflected  so  insistently  upon  her,  but  she  transmuted 
them  into  products  which  would  immensely  have  surprised 
her  parents,  they  being  under  the  usual  parental  delusion 
that  they  knew  every  corner  of  her  heart.  Her  budding 
aversions,  convictions,  ambitions  were  not  in  the  least  the 
aversions,  convictions,  and  ambitions  so  loudly  voiced  about 
her;  and  a  good  deal  of  her  energy  was  taken  up  in  a  more 
or  less  conscious  reaction  from  the  family  catchwords,  with 
especial  emphasis  laid  on  an  objection  to  the  family  habit  of 
taking  their  convictions  with  great  seriousness. 

Her  father  would  have  been  aghast  if  he  could  have  felt 
the  slightest  reflection  from  the  heat  of  her  detestation  of 
his  favorite,  Emersonian  motto,  which,  now  that  he  had 
reached  five  and  forty,  he  was  apt  to  repeat  with  the  itera- 
tion natural  to  his  age,  rousing  in  Sylvia  the  rebellious 
exasperation  felt  by  her  age  for  over-emphatic  moralizings. 

On  the  occasion  of  one  of  the  annual  gatherings  at  the 
Marshall  house  of  the  Seniors  in  her  father's  classes,  she 
remarked  fiercely  to  Judith,  u  If  Father  gets  off  that  old 
Emerson,  '  What  will  you  have,  quoth  God.  Take  it  and 
pay  for  it/  again  tonight  in  his  speech,  I'm  going  to  get 
right  up  and  scream." 

Judith  stared.    The  girls  were  in  the  kitchen,  large  aprons 


The  End  of  Childhood  107 

over  their  best  dresses,  setting  out  rows  of  plates  for  the 
chicken  salad  which  was  to  come  after  the  music.  "  I  don't 
see  anything  to  scream  about  in  that ! "  said  Judith  with  a 
wondering  contempt  for  Sylvia's  notions. 

"  I'm  so  sick  of  it !  "  cried  Sylvia,  tearing  the  lettuce- 
leaves  apart  with  venom.  "  Father  never  gets  through  any 
sort  of  a  speech  that  he  doesn't  work  it  in — and  I  hate  it, 
anyhow !  It  makes  me  feel  as  though  somebody  had  banged 
a  big  door  in  my  face  and  shut  me  up  in  prison." 

"  Well,  for  goodness'  sakes ! "  cried  Judith,  who,  at  this 
period  of  their  lives,  had  remained  rather  more  than  her 
three  years  behind  Sylvia's  intelligence.  "  How  do  you  get 
all  that  out  of  that!" 

"  You  haven't  sense  enough  to  know  what  it  means,  that's 
all ! "  retorted  Sylvia.  "  It  means  something  perfectly  hate- 
ful, the  way  Father  uses  it.  It  means  you've  got  to  pay 
for  every  single  thing  you  do  or  get  in  this  world!  It's 
somebody  tagging  you  round  with  an  account-book,  seeing 
how  big  a  bill  you're  running  up.  It's  the  perfectly  horrid 
way  Father  and  Mother  make  us  do,  of  always  washing  up 
the  dishes  we  dirty,  and  always  picking  up  the  things  we 
drop.  Seems  as  though  I'd  die  happy,  if  I  could  just  step 
out  of  my  nightgown  in  the  morning  and  leave  it  there,  and 
know  that  it  would  get  hung  up  without  my  doing  it." 

"  Well,  if  that's  all  you  want,  to  die  happy,"  said  Judith, 
the  literal-minded,  "  I  will  do  that  much  for  you !  " 

"  Oh  gracious,  no !  That  wouldn't  do  any  good !  You 
know  I  couldn't  take  any  satisfaction  letting  you  do  that ! " 
objected  Sylvia  peevishly,  fuming  and  fumbling  helplessly 
before  the  baffling  quality  of  her  desires.  "  I  don't  want 
just  somebody  to  pick  it  up  for  me.  I  want  it  picked  up  by 
somebody  that  I  don't  care  about,  that  I  don't  see,  that  I'd 
just  as  soon  have  do  the  tiresome  things  as  not.  I  want 
somebody  to  do  it,  and  me  to  feel  all  right  about  having 
them  do  it!" 

"  Well,  for  goodness'  sakes !  "  Judith  was  reduced  again 
to  mere  wonder. 

Professor  and  Mrs.  Marshall  stepped  into  the  kitchen  for 


108  The  Bent  Twig 

a  moment  to  see  that  everything  was  progressing  smoothly. 
The  professor  had  his  viola  in  his  hand  and  was  plucking 
softly  at  the  strings,  a  pleasant,  tranquil  anticipation  of 
harmony  on  his  face.  He  looked  affectionately  at  his 
daughters  and  thought  what  dear  good  children  they  were. 
Judith  appealed  to  her  parents :  "  Sylvia's  as  crazy  as  a  loon. 
She  says  she  wants  somebody  to  do  her  work  for  her,  and 
yet  she  wants  to  feel  all  right  about  shirking  it !  " 

Mrs.  Marshall  did  not  follow,  and  did  not  care. 
"  What  ?  "  she  said  indifferently,  tasting  the  chicken-salad 
in  the  big  yellow  bowl,  and,  with  an  expression  of  serious 
consideration,  adding  a  little  more  salt  to  it. 

But  Sylvia's  father  understood,  "  What  you  want  to  re- 
member, daughter,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  his  oldest 
child  with  a  fond  certainty  of  her  quick  apprehension,  "  is 
that  fine  saying  of  Emerson,  '  What  will  you  have,  quoth — '  " 
A  raw-boned  assistant  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "  Every- 
body here,  I  guess,  Perfesser,"  he  said. 

When  the  girls  were  alone  again,  Sylvia  stole  a  look  at 
Judith  and  broke  into  noiseless  giggles.  She  laughed  till 
the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  and  she  had  to  stop  work  and 
go  to  the  kitchen  sink  to  wash  her  face  and  take  a  drink  of 
water.  "  You  never  do  what  you  say  you're  going  to,"  said 
Judith,  as  gravely  alien  to  this  mood  as  to  the  other.  "  I 
thought  you  said  you'd  scream." 

"  I  am  screaming,"  said  Sylvia,  wiping  her  eyes  again. 

They  were  very  familiar  with  the  work  of  preparing  the 
simple  "  refreshments  "  for  University  gatherings.  Their 
mother  always  provided  exactly  the  same  viands,  and  long 
practice  had  made  them  letter-perfect  in  the  moves  to  be 
made.  When  they  had  finished  portioning  off  the  lettuce- 
leaves  and  salad  on  the  plates,  they  swiftly  set  each  one  on 
a  fresh  crepe-paper  napkin.  Sylvia  professed  an  undying 
hatred  for  paper  napkins.  "  I  don't  see  why,"  said  Judith. 
"  They're  so  much  less  bother  than  the  other  kind  when 
you're  only  going  to  use  them  once,  this  way."  "  That's 
it,"  asserted  Sylvia ;  "  that's  the  very  stingy,  economical 
thing  about  them  I  hate,  their  not  being  a  bother!    I'd  like 


The  End  of  Childhood  109 

to  use  big,  fine-damask  ones,  all  shiny,  that  somebody  had 
ironed  twenty  minutes,  every  one,  like  those  we  had  at 
Eleanor  Hubert's  birthday  party.  And  then  I'd  scrunch 
them  up  and  throw  them  in  the  laundry  if  there  was  the 
least  speck  on  them." 

"  I  wouldn't  like  the  job  of  doing  them  up,"  said  Judith. 

"  Neither  would  I.  I'd  hate  it !  And  I  wouldn't,"  con- 
tinued Sylvia,  roaming  at  will  in  her  enchanted  garden; 
"  I'd  hire  somebody  to  take  all  the  bother  of  buying  them 
and  hemming  them  and  doing  them  up  and  putting  them  on 
the  table.  All  I'd  do,  would  be  to  shake  them  out  and  lay 
them  across  my  lap,"  she  went  through  a  dainty-fingered 
pantomime,  "  and  never  think  a  thing  about  how  they  got 
there.  That's  all  /  want  to  do  with  napkins.  But  I  do  love 
'em  big  and  glossy.    I  could  kiss  them !  " 

Judith  was  almost  alarmed  at  the  wildness  of  Sylvia's 
imaginings.  "  Why,  you  talk  as  though  you  didn't  have 
good  sense  tonight,  Sylvie.  It's  the  party.  You  always  get 
so  excited  over  parties."  Judith  considered  it  a  "  come- 
down "  to  get  excited  over  anything. 

"  Great  Scotland !  I  guess  I  don't  get  excited  over  one 
of  these  student  parties  !  "  Sylvia  repudiated  the  idea.  "  All 
Father's  '  favorite  students '  are  such  rough-necks.  And  it 
makes  me  tired  to  have  all  our  freaks  come  out  of  their 
holes  when  we  have  company — Miss  Lindstrom  and  Mr. 
Hecht  and  Cousin  Parnelia  and  all." 

"  The  President  comes,"  advanced  Judith. 

Sylvia  was  sweeping  in  her  iconoclasm.  "  What  if  he 
does — old  fish-mouth!  He's  nobody — he's  a  rough-neck 
himself.  He  used  to  be  a  Baptist  minister.  He's  only  Presi- 
dent because  he  can  talk  the  hayseeds  in  the  Legislature  into 
giving  the  University  big  appropriations.  And  anyhow,  he 
only  comes  here  because  he  has  to — part  of  his  job.  He 
doesn't  like  the  freaks  any  better  than  I  do.  The  last  time 
he  was  here,  I  heard  Cousin  Parnelia  trying  to  persuade 
him  to  have  planchette  write  him  a  message  from  Abraham 
Lincoln.    Isn't  she  the  limit,  anyhow !  " 

The  girls  put  off  their  aprons  and  slipped  into  the  big, 


no  The  Bent  Twig 

low-ceilinged  living-room,  singing  like  a  great  sea-shell  with 
thrilling  violin-tones.  Old  Reinhardt  was  playing  the 
Kreutzer,  with  Professor  Marshall  at  the  piano.  Judith 
went  quietly  to  sit  near  Professor  Kennedy,  and  Sylvia  sat 
down  near  a  window,  leaning  her  head  against  the  pane  as 
she  listened,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  blackness  outside.  Her 
face  cleared  and  brightened,  like  a  cloudy  liquor  settling  to 
limpidity  in  a  crystal  vase.  Her  lips  parted  a  little,  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  a  point  incalculably  distant.  Her  mind 
emptied  itself  of  everything  but  her  joy  in  the  glorious 
cadences.  .  .  . 

If  she  had  been  asked  what  she  and  Judith  had  been 
talking  of,  she  could  not  have  told;  but  when,  after  the 
second  movement  was  finished,  old  Reinhardt  put  down  his 
violin  and  began  to  loosen  his  bow  (he  never  played  the 
presto  finale),  it  all  came  back  to  the  girl  as  she  looked 
around  her  at  her  father's  guests.  She  hated  the  way  the 
young  men's  Adam's  apples  showed  through  their  too-widely 
opened  collars,  and  she  loathed  the  way  the  thin  brown  hair 
of  one  of  the  co-eds  was  strained  back  from  her  temples. 
She  received  the  President's  condescending,  oleaginous 
hand-shake  with  a  qualm  at  his  loud  oratorical  voice  and 
plebeian  accent,  and  she  headed  Cousin  Parnelia  off  from  a 
second  mediumistic  attack,  hating  her  badly  adjusted  false- 
front  of  hair  as  intensely  as  ever  Loyola  hated  a  heretic. 
And  this,  although  uncontrollably  driven  by  her  desire  to 
please,  to  please  even  a  roomful  of  such  mediocrities,  she 
bore  to  the  outward  eyes  the  most  gracious  aspect  of 
friendly,  smiling  courtesy.  Professor  Marshall  looked  at 
her  several  times,  as  she  moved  with  her  slim  young  grace 
among  his  students  and  friends,  and  thought  how  fortunate 
he  was  in  his  children. 

After  the  chicken-salad  and  coffee  had  been  successfully 
served  and  eaten,  one  of  the  Seniors  stepped  forward  with 
an  awkward  crudeness  and  presented  Professor  Marshall 
with  a  silver-mounted  blotting-pad.  The  house  was  littered 
with  such  testimonials  to  the  influence  of  the  Professor 
on  the  young  minds  under  his  care,   testimonials   which 


The  End  of  Childhood  in 

his  children  took  as  absolutely  for  granted  as  they  did 
everything  else  in  the  home  life.  On  this  occasion  Sylvia 
was  so  afflicted  because  the  young  rustic  appointed 
to  make  the  presentation  speech,  forgot  most  of  what 
he  had  planned  to  say,  that  she  felt  nothing  but  the 
liveliest  impatience  with  the  whole  proceeding.  But 
her  father's  quick  heart  was  touched,  and  more  than  half 
of  his  usual  little  speech  of  farewell  to  his  Seniors  was  an 
expression  of  thanks  to  them.  Before  he  had  finished  the 
last  part,  which  consisted  of  eloquent  exhortations  to  the 
higher  life,  none  the  less  sincerely  heartfelt  for  being  re- 
markably like  similar  speeches  he  had  made  during  the  last 
twenty  years,  he  had  quoted  his  favorite  saying  from  Emer- 
son. Judith  looked  apprehensively  at  Sylvia;  but  she  was 
not  laughing.  She  evidently  was  not  hearing  a  word  her 
father  said,  being  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  the  perfect 
evening  costume  of  the  newest  assistant  in  Professor  Mar- 
shall's department.  He  was  a  young  man  from  Massachu- 
setts, fresh  from  Harvard,  who  had  come  West  to  begin 
his  teaching  that  year.  His  was  certainly  the  most  modern 
dress-suit  in  the  University  faculty;  and  he  wore  it  with 
a  supercilious  disregard  for  its  perfections  which  greatly 
impressed  Sylvia. 

After  these  usual  formalities  were  thus  safely  past,  some 
one  suggested  a  game  of  charades  to  end  the  evening. 
Amid  great  laughter  and  joking  from  the  few  professors 
present  and  delighted  response  from  the  students  who  found 
it  immensely  entertaining  to  be  on  such  familiar  terms  with 
their  instructors,  two  leaders  began  to  "  choose  sides."  The 
young  assistant  from  Harvard  said  in  a  low  tone  to  his 
friend,  not  noticing  Professor  Marshall's  young  daughter 
near  them :  "  They  won't  really  go  on  and  do  this  fool, 
undignified,  backwoods  stunt,  will  they?  They  don't  ex- 
pect us  to  join  in!" 

"  Oh  yes,  they  will,"  answered  his  friend,  catching  up  his 
tone  of  sophisticated  scorn.  He  too  was  from  Harvard, 
from  an  earlier  class.  "  You'll  be  lucky  if  they  don't  have 
a  spelling-down  match,  later  on." 


ii2  The  Bent  Twig 

"  Good  Lord !  "  groaned  the  first  young  man. 

"  Oh,  you  mustn't  think  all  of  the  University  society  is 
like  this! "  protested  the  second.  "  And  anyhow,  we  can 
slope  now,  without  being  noticed." 

Sylvia  understood  the  accent  and  tone  of  this  passage 
more  than  the  exact  words,  but  it  summed  up  and  brought 
home  to  her  in  a  cruelly  clarified  form  her  own  groping 
impressions.  The  moment  was  a  terribly  painful  one  for 
her.  Her  heart  swelled,  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes,  she 
clenched  her  fists.  Her  fine,  lovely,  and  sensitive  face 
darkened  to  a  tragic  intensity  of  resolve.  She  might  have 
been  the  young  Hannibal,  vowing  to  avenge  Carthage. 
What  she  was  saying  to  herself  passionately  was,  "  When  / 
get  into  the  University,  I  will  not  be  a  jay ! " 

It  was  under  these  conditions  that  Sylvia  passed  from 
childhood,  and  emerged  into  the  pains  and  delights  and 
responsibilities  of  self-consciousness. 


BOOK  II 
A  FALSE  START  TO  ATHENS 

CHAPTER  X 

SYLVIA'S  FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  MODERN 
CIVILIZATION 

Although  there  was  not  the  slightest  actual  connection 
between  the  two,  the  trip  to  Chicago  was  always  in  Sylvia's 
mind  like  the  beginning  of  her  University  course.  It  is 
true  that  the  journey,  practically  the  first  in  Sylvia's  life, 
was  undertaken  shortly  before  her  matriculation  as  a  Fresh- 
man, but  this  fortuitous  chronological  connection  could  not 
account  for  Sylvia's  sense  of  a  deeper  unity  between  the 
two  experiences.  The  days  in  Chicago,  few  as  they  were, 
were  as  charged  with  significance  for  her  as  the  successive 
acts  in  a  drama,  and  that  significance  was  of  the  substance 
and  marrow  of  the  following  and  longer  passage  in  her 
life. 

The  fact  that  her  father  and  her  mother  disagreed  about 
the  advisability  of  the  trip  was  one  of  the  salient  points 
in  the  beginning.  When  Aunt  Victoria,  breaking  a  long 
silence  with  one  of  her  infrequent  letters,  wrote  to  say  that 
she  was  to  be  in  Chicago  "  on  business  "  during  the  last 
week  of  September,  and  would  be  very  glad  to  have  her 
sister-in-law  bring  her  two  nieces  to  see  her  there,  Professor 
Marshall  said,  with  his  usual  snort:  "Business  nothing! 
She  never  has  any  business.  She  won't  come  to  see  them 
here,  that's  all.  The  idea's  preposterous."  But  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, breaking  a  long  silence  of  her  own,  said  vigorously : 
"  She  is  your  sister,  and  you  and  your  family  are  the  only 

113 


ii4  The  Bent  Twig 

blood-kin  she  has  in  the  world.  I've  a  notion — I  have  had 
for  some  time — that  she  was  somehow  terribly  hurt  on  that 
last  visit  here.  It  would  be  ungenerous  not  to  go  half-way 
to  meet  her  now." 

Sylvia,  anxiously  hanging  on  her  father's  response,  was 
surprised  when  he  made  no  protest  beyond,  "  Well,  do  as 
you  please.  I  can  keep  Lawrence  all  right.  She  only  speaks 
of  seeing  you  and  the  girls."  It  did  not  occur  to  Sylvia, 
astonished  at  this  sudden  capitulation,  that  there  might  be  a 
discrepancy  between  her  father's  habit  of  vehement  speech 
and  his  real  feeling  in  this  instance. 

It  was  enough  for  her,  however,  that  they  were  going  to 
take  a  long  journey  on  the  train  overnight,  that  they  were 
going  to  see  a  great  city,  that  they  were  going  to  see  Aunt 
Victoria,  about  whom  her  imagination  had  always  hovered, 
with  a  constancy  enhanced  by  the  odd  silence  concerning  her 
which  was  the  rule  in  the  Marshall  house. 

She  was  immensely  stirred  by  the  prospect.  She  made 
herself,  in  the  brief  interval  between  the  decision  and  the 
beginning  of  the  journey,  a  new  shirt-waist  of  handkerchief 
linen.  It  took  the  last  cent  of  her  allowance  to  buy  the 
material,  and  she  was  obliged,  by  a  secret  arrangement  with 
her  father,  to  discount  the  future,  in  order  to  have  some 
spending-money  in  the  city. 

Mrs.  Marshall  was  quite  disappointed  by  the  dullness  of 
Sylvia's  perceptions  during  that  momentous  first  trip,  which 
she  had  looked  forward  to  as  an  occasion  for  widening  the 
girls'  horizon  to  new  interests.  Oddly  enough  it  was  Judith, 
usually  so  much  less  quick  than  Sylvia,  who  asked  the  in- 
telligent questions  and  listened  attentively  to  her  mother's 
explanations  about  the  working  of  the  air-brakes,  and  the 
switching  systems  in  railroad  yards,  and  the  harvesting  of 
the  crops  in  the  flat,  rich  country  gliding  past  the  windows. 
It  was  quite  evident  that  not  a  word  of  this  highly  instruc- 
tive talk  reached  Sylvia,  sitting  motionless,  absorbing  every 
detail  of  her  fellow-passengers'  aspect,  in  a  sort  of  trance 
of  receptivity.  She  scarcely  glanced  out  of  the  windows, 
except  when  the  train  stopped  at  the  station  in  a  large  town, 


Sylvia's  Glimpse  of  Modern  Civilization     u 


.3 


when  she  transferred  her  steady  gaze  to  the  people  coming 
and  going  from  the  train.  "  Just  look,  Sylvia,  at  those  blast- 
furnaces!" cried  her  mother  as  they  passed  through  the 
outskirts  of  an  industrial  town.  "  They  have  to  ketp  them 
going,  you  know,  night  and  day." 

"Oh,  do  they?  What  for?"  asked  Judith,  craning  her 
neck  to  watch  the  splendid  leap  of  the  flames  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

"  Because  they  can't  allow  the  ore  to  become "    Mrs. 

Marshall  wondered  why,  during  her  conscientious  explana- 
tion of  blast-furnaces,  Sylvia  kept  her  eyes  dully  fixed  on 
her  hands  on  her  lap.  Sylvia  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
trying  imaginary  bracelets  on  her  slim,  smooth,  white  wrists. 
The  woman  opposite  her  wore  bracelets. 

"  Isn't  it  fine,"  remarked  the  civic-minded  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, "  to  see  all  these  little  prairie  towns  so  splendidly 
lighted?" 

"  I  hadn't  noticed  them,"  said  Sylvia,  her  gaze  turned  on 
the  elegant  nonchalance  of  a  handsome,  elderly  woman 
ahead  of  her.  Her  mother  looked  at  her  askance,  and 
thought  that  children  are  unaccountable. 

There  were  four  of  the  Chicago  days,  and  such  important 
events  marked  them  that  each  one  had  for  all  time  a  physi- 
ognomy of  its  own.  Years  afterwards  when  their  travels 
had  far  outrun  that  first  journey,  Sylvia  and  Judith  could 
have  told  exactly  what  occurred  on  any  given  day  of  that 
sojourn,  as  u  on  the  third  day  we  were  in  Chicago." 

The  event  of  the  first  day  was,  of  course,  the  meeting  with 
Aunt  Victoria.  They  went  to  see  her  in  a  wonderful  hotel, 
entering  through  a  classic  court,  with  a  silver-plashing  foun- 
tain in  the  middle,  and  slim  Ionic  pillars  standing  up  white 
and  glorious  out  of  masses  of  palms.  This  dreamlike  spot  of 
beauty  was  occupied  by  an  incessantly  restless  throng  of  lean, 
sallow-faced  men  in  sack-coats,  with  hats  on  the  backs  of 
their  heads  and  cigars  in  the  corners  of  their  mouths.  The 
air  was  full  of  tobacco  smoke  and  the  click  of  heels  on  the 
marble  pavement.  At  one  side  was  a  great  onyx-and- 
marble  desk,  looking  like  a  soda-water  fountain  without  the 


n6  The  Bent  Twig 

silver  faucets,  and  it  was  the  thin-cheeked,  elegant  young- 
old  man  behind  this  structure  who  gave  instructions  whereby 
Mrs.  Marshall  and  her  two  daughters  found  their  way  to 
Aunt  Victoria's  immense  and  luxurious  room.  She  was 
very  glad  to  see  them,  shaking  hands  with  her  sister-in-law 
in  the  respectful  manner  which  that  lady  always  seemed 
to  inspire  in  her,  and  embracing  her  two  tall  young  nieces 
with  a  fervor  which  melted  Sylvia's  heart  back  to  her  old 
childish  adoration. 

"  What  beautiful  children  you  have,  Barbara ! "  crietl 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  holding  Judith  off  at  arm's  length 
and  looking  from  her  to  Sylvia ;  "  although  I  suppose  I 
ought  not  to  tell  them  that !  "  She  looked  at  Sylvia  with«an 
affectionate  laugh.  "Will  you  be  spoiled  if  I  tell  you  you 
are  very  pretty  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  but  how  pretty  you  are !  "  said 
Sylvia,  voicing  honestly  what  was  in  her  mind. 

This  answer  caused  her  aunt  to  cry  out :  "  Oh !  Oh ! 
And  tact  too !  She's  meant  for  social  success !  "  She  left 
this  note  to  vibrate  in  Sylvia's  ears  and  turned  again  to  her 
sister-in-law  with  hospitable  remarks  about  the  removing 
of  wraps.  As  this  was  being  done,  she  took  advantage  of 
the  little  bustle  to  remark  from  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
"  I  rather  hoped  Elliott  would  come  with  you."  She  spoke 
lightly,  but  there  was  the  tremor  of  feeling  in  her  sweet 
voice  which  Sylvia  found  she  remembered  as  though  it 
had  been  but  yesterday  she  had  heard  it  last. 

"  You  didn't  ask  him,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall,  with  her 
usual  directness. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  arched  her  eyebrows,  dropped  her 
eyelids,  and  shook  her  head.  "  No,  I  didn't  ask  him,"  she 
admitted,  and  then  with  a  little  wry  twist  of  her  lips,  "  But 
I  rather  hoped  he  might  feel  like  coming."  She  looked  down 
at  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Marshall  surprised  her  daughters  very  much  by 
going  across  the  room  and  kissing  her  husband's  sister. 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  took  the  other's  strong,  hard  hand  be- 
tween her  soft  fingers.    "  That's  generous  in  you,  Barbara," 


Sylvia's  Glimpse  of  Modern  Civilization     117 

she  said,  looking  intently  into  the  pitying  dark  eyes.  "  I'm 
human,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know  you're  human,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall,  look- 
ing down  at  her  gravely.  "  So  are  we  all  of  us.  So's  Elliott. 
Don't  forget  that."  With  which  obscure  reference,  entirely 
unintelligible  tp  the  two  girls,  the  matter  was  forever 
dropped. 

The  two  ladies  thereupon  embarked  upon  the  difficult 
business  of  laying  out  to  the  best  advantage  the  few  days 
before  them  so  that  every  hour  might  be  utilized  for  the 
twofold  purpose  of  seeing  each  other  and  having  the  girls 
see  the  sights.  Judith  went  to  the-  window  during  this  con- 
versation, and  looked  down  into  the  crowded  street,  the  first 
city  street  she  had  ever  seen.  Sylvia  sat  quietly  and  im- 
printed upon  her  memory  every  item  in  the  appearance  of 
the  two  women  before  her,  not  the  first  time  she  had  com- 
pared them.  Mrs.  Marshall  was  dressed  in  a  dark-blue, 
well-preserved,  ready-made  suit,  dating  from  the  year  be- 
fore. It  was  in  perfect  condition  and  quite  near  enough  the 
style  of  the  moment  to  pass  unnoticed.  Sylvia  saw  nothing 
to  be  ashamed  of  in  her  mother's  unaccented  and  neutral 
costume,  but  there  was  no  denying  that  she  looked  exactly 
like  any  one  else.  What  was  most  apparent  to  the  dis- 
cerning eye  was  that  her  garb  had  been  organized  in  every 
detail  so  as  to  consume  as  little  thought  and  effort  as 
possible.  Whereas  Aunt  Victoria — Sylvia's  earnest  and 
thoughtful  efforts  at  home-dressmaking  had  fitted  her,  if 
for  nothing  else,  for  a  full  appreciation  of  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith's  costume.  She  had  struggled  with  cloth  enough  to 
bow  her  head  in  respect  and  awe  before  the  masterly  tailor- 
ing of  the  rich,  smooth  broadcloth  dress.  She  knew  from 
her  own  experience  that  the  perfection  of  those  welted 
seams  could  not  be  accomplished  by  even  the  most 
intense  temporary  concentration  of  amateur  forces.  No 
such  trifling  fire  of  twigs  lighted  the  way  to  that  pinnacle. 
The  workman  who  had  achieved  that  skill  had  cut 
down  the  whole  tree  of  his  life  and  thrown  it  into  the 
flame. 


n8  The  Bent  Twig 

Like  a  self-taught  fiddler  at  the  concert  of  a  master,  Syl- 
via's failures  had  taught  her  the  meaning  of  success.  Al- 
though her  inexperience  kept  her  from  making  at  all  a  close 
estimate  of  the  literal  cost  of  the  toilet,  her  shrewdness  made 
her  divine  the  truth,  which  was  that  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith, 
in  spite  of  the  plainness  of  her  attire,  could  have  clad  herself 
in  cloth-of-gold  at  a  scarcely  greater  expenditure  of  the 
efforts  and  lives  of  others.  Sylvia  felt  that  her  aunt  was 
the  most  entirely  enviable  person  in  the  world,  and  would 
gladly  have  changed  places  with  her  in  a  moment. 

That  was,  on  the  whole,  the  note  of  the  Chicago  trip,  all 
the  dazzling  lights  and  reflections  of  which  focused,  for 
Sylvia,  upon  Aunt  Victoria's  radiant  person.  At  times, 
the  resultant  beam  was  almost  too  much  for  the  young  eyes ; 
as,  for  example,  on  the  next  day  when  the  two  made  a 
momentous  shopping  expedition  to  the  largest  and  finest 
department  store  in  the  city.  "  I've  a  curiosity  to  see,"  Aunt 
Victoria  had  declared  carelessly,  "  what  sort  of  things  are 
sold  in  a  big  Western  shop,  and  besides  I've  some  purchases 
to  make  for  the  Lydford  house.  Things  needs  freshening 
up  there.  I've  thought  of  wicker  and  chintz  for  the  living- 
room.  It  would  be  a  change  from  what  I've  had.  Perhaps 
it  would  amuse  the  children  to  go  along?  " 

At  this,  Judith,  who  had  a  boy's  detestation  of  shopping, 
looked  so  miserable  that  Aunt  Victoria  had  laughed  out, 
her  frank,  amused  laugh,  and  said,  "  Well,  Sylvia  and  I 
alone,  then ! " 

"  Judith  and  I'll  go  to  Lincoln  Park  to  take  a  walk  by  the 
lake,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall.  "  Our  inland  young  folks  have 
never  seen  so  much  water  all  at  once." 

Sylvia  had  been,  of  course,  in  the  two  substantial  and 
well-run  department  stores  of  La  Chance,  when  she  went 
with  her  mother  to  make  their  carefully  considered  pur- 
chases. They  always  went  directly  to  the  department  in 
question,  where  Mrs.  Marshall's  concise  formula  ran  usually 
along  such  lines  as,  "  I  would  like  to  look  at  misses'  coats, 
size  16,  blue  or  brown  serge,  moderate  style,  price  some- 
where between  ten  and  fifteen  dollars."     And  then  thev 


Sylvia's  Glimpse  of  Modern  Civilization    119 

looked  at  misses'  coats,  size  16,  blue  or  brown  serge,  of  the 
specified  price;  and  picked  out  one.  Sylvia's  mother  was 
under  the  impression  that  she  allowed  her  daughters  to 
select  their  own  clothes  because,  after  all  these  defining  and 
limiting  preliminaries,  she  always,  with  a  very  genuine  in- 
difference, abandoned  them  to  their  own  choice  between  the 
four  or  five  garments  offered. 

Even  when  Sylvia,  as  she  grew  older,  went  by  herself  to 
make  a  small  purchase  or  two,  she  was  so  deeply  under  the 
influence  of  her  mother's  example  that  she  felt  it  unbecom- 
ing to  loiter,  or  to  examine  anything  she  knew  she  could 
not  buy.  Besides,  nearly  all  the  salespeople,  who,  for  the 
most  part,  had  been  at  their  posts  for  many  years,  knew 
her  from  childhood,  and  if  she  stopped  to  look  at  a  show- 
case of  new  collars,  or  jabots,  they  always  came  pleasantly 
to  pass  the  time  of  day,  and  ask  how  her  little  brother  was* 
and  how  she  liked  studying  at  home.  She  was  ashamed 
to  show  in  their  presence  anything  but  a  casual,  dignified 
interest  in  the  goods  they  handled. 

After  these  feeble  and  diluted  tipplings,  her  day  with 
Aunt  Victoria  was  like  a  huge  draught  of  raw  spirits.  That 
Tiuch-experienced  shopper  led  her  a  leisurely  course  up  one 
dazzling  aisle  and  down  another,  pausing  ruthlessly  to  look 
and  to  handle  and  to  comment,  even  if  she  had  not  the  least 
intention  of  buying.  With  an  inimitable  ease  of  manner 
she  examined  whatever  took  her  fancy,  and  the  languid, 
fashionably  dressed  salesladies,  all  in  aristocratic  black, 
showed  to  these  whims  a  smiling  deference,  which  Sylvia 
knew  could  come  from  nothing  but  the  exquisite  tailoring  of 
Aunt  Victoria's  blue  broadcloth.  This  perception  did  not  in 
the  least  lower  her  opinion  of  the  value  of  the  deference. 
It  heightened  her  opinion  of  the  value  of  tailoring. 

They  stood  by  glass  tables  piled  high  with  filmy  and  costly 
underwear,  such  underwear  as  Sylvia  had  never  dreamed 
could  exist,  and  Aunt  Victoria  looked  casually  at  the  cob- 
web tissues  which  the  saleswoman  held  up,  herself  hankering 
in  a  hungry  adoration  of  the  luxury  she  would  never  touch 
in  any  other  way.    Without  apology  or  explanation,  other 


120  The  Bent  Twig 

than  Aunt  Victoria's  gracious  nod  of  dismissal,  they  moved 
on  to  the  enchanted  cave  where,  under  the  stare  of  in- 
numerable electric  lights,  evening  wraps  were  exhibited. 
The  young  woman  who  served  them  held  the  expensive, 
fragile  chiffon  of  the  garments  up  in  front  of  her  black 
uniform,  her  eyes  wistful  and  unsatisfied.  Her  instant  of 
glory  was  over  when  Aunt  Victoria  bought  one  of  these, 
exclaiming  humorously  about  the  quaintness  of  going  from 
Paris  to  Chicago  to  shop.  It  was  of  silver  tissue  over  v/hite 
brocade,  with  a  collar  of  fur,  and  the  price  was  a  hundred 
and  thirty-seven  dollars.  Sylvia's  allowance  for  all  her 
personal  expenses  for  a  whole  year  was  a  hundred  and 
twenty.  To  reach  the  furniture,  they  passed  by,  with  an 
ignoring  contempt,  huge  counters  heaped  with  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  shirt-waists,  any  one  of  which  was  better 
than  the  one  Sylvia  had  made  with  so  much  care  and 
interest  before  leaving  home. 

Among  the  furniture  they  made  a  long  stay.  Aunt  Vic- 
toria was  unexpectedly  pleased  by  the  design  of  the  wicker 
pieces,  and  bought  and  bought  and  bought ;  till  Sylvia  turned 
her  head  away  in  bewilderment.  She  looked  down  a  long 
perspective  of  glittering  show-cases  filled  with  the  minor 
luxuries  of  the  toilet,  the  ruffs,  the  collars,  the  slipper- 
rosettes,  the  embroidered  belts,  the  hair  ornaments,  the 
chiffon  scarves,  all  objects  diverse,  innumerable,  perishable 
as  mist  in  tree-branches,  all  costly  in  exact  ratio  to  their 
fragility.  Back  of  her  were  the  children's  dresses,  fairy-like, 
simple  with  an  extravagantly  costly  simplicity.  It  occurred 
to  Sylvia  as  little  as  to  many  others  of  the  crowd  of  half- 
hypnotized  women,  wandering  about  with  burning  eyes  and 
watering  mouths  through  the  shrewdly  designed  shop,  that 
the  great  closets  back  of  these  adroitly  displayed  fineries 
might  be  full  of  wearable,  firm-textured  little  dresses,  such 
as  she  herself  had  always  worn.  It  required  an  effort  of  the 
will  to  remember  that,  and  wills  weak,  or  not  yet  formed, 
wavered  and  bent  before  the  lust  of  the  eye,  so  cunningly  in- 
flamed. Any  sense  of  values,  of  proportion,  in  Sylvia  was 
dumfounded  by  the  lavishness,  the  enormous  quantities,  the 


Sylvia's  Glimpse  of  Modern  Civilization     121 

immense  varieties  of  the  goods  displayed.  She  ached  with 
covetousness.  ... 

When  they  joined  the  others  at  the  hotel  her  mother,  after 
commenting  that  she  looked  rather  flushed  and  tired,  hap- 
pened to  ask,  "  Oh,  by  the  way,  Sylvia,  did  you  happen  to 
come  across  anything  in  serge  suits  that  would  be  suitable 
for  school-wear?  " 

Sylvia  quivered,  cried  out  explosively,  "No!"  and  turned 
away,  feeling  a  hot  pulse  beating  through  her  body.  But 
Aunt  Victoria  happened  to  divert  attention  at  that  mo- 
ment. She  had  been  reading,  with  a  very  serious  and 
somewhat  annoyed  expression,  a  long  telegram  just  handed 
her,  and  now  in  answer  to  Mrs.  Marshall's  expression  of 
concern,  said  hastily,  "  Oh,  it's  Arnold  again.  .  .  .  It's  al- 
ways Arnold ! "  She  moved  to  a  desk  and  wrote  a  brief 
telegram  which  she  handed  to  the  waiting  man-servant. 
Sylvia  noticed  it  was  addressed  to  Mr.  A.  H.  Saunders,  a 
name  which  set  dimly  ringing  in  her  head  recollections  now 
muffled  and  obscured. 

Aunt  Victoria  went  on  to  Mrs.  Marshall :  "  Arnold  hates 
this  school  so.    He  always  hates  his  schools." 

"  Oh,  he  is  at  school  now  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Marshall.  "  You 
haven't  a  tutor  for  him  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  Mr.  Saunders  is  still  with  him — in  the  sum- 
mers and  during  holidays."  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  explained 
further :  "  To  keep  him  up  in  his  studies.  He  doesn't  learn 
anything  in  his  school,  you  know.  They  never  do.  It's 
only  for  the  atmosphere — the  sports;  you  know,  they  play 
cricket  where  he  is  now — and  the  desirable  class  of  boys 
he  meets  .  .  .  All  the  boys  have  tutors  in  vacation  times  to 
coach  them  for  the  college-entrance  examinations." 

The  face  of  the  college  professor's  wife  continued  im- 
movably grave  during  this  brief  summary  of  an  educational 
system.  She  inquired,  "  How  old  is  Arnold  now  ?  "  learned 
that  he  was  seventeen,  remembered  that,  oh  yes,  he  was  a 
year  older  than  Sylvia,  and  allowed  the  subject  to  drop  into 
one  of  the  abysmal  silences  for  which  she  alone  had  the 
courage.     Her  husband's  sister  was  as  little  proof  against 


122  The  Bent  Twig 

it  as  her  husband.  As  it  continued,  Mrs.  Marshall- Smith 
went  through  the  manceuvers  which  in  a  less  perfectly  bred 
person  would  have  been  fidgeting.  .  .  . 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  Sylvia,  who  sat  confront- 
ing herself  in  a  long  mirror  and  despising  every  garment 
she  wore. 


CHAPTER  XI 
ARNOLD'S  FUTURE  IS  CASUALLY  DECIDED 

The  next  day  was  to  have  been  given  up  to  really  im- 
proving pursuits.  The  morning  in  the  Art  Institute  came 
off  as  planned.  The  girls  were  marshaled  through  the  sculp- 
ture and  paintings  and  various  art  objects  with  about  the 
result  which  might  have  been  expected.  As  blankly  inex- 
perienced of  painting  and  sculpture  as  any  Bushmen,  they 
received  this  sudden  enormous  dose  of  those  arts  with  an 
instant,  self-preservatory  incapacity  to  swallow  even  a 
small  amount  of  them.  It  is  true  that  the  very  first  exhibits 
they  saw,  the  lions  outside  the  building,  the  first  paint- 
ings they  encountered,  made  an  appreciable  impression  on 
them ;  but  after  this  they  followed  their  elders  through  the 
interminable  crowded  halls  of  the  museum,  their  legs  aching 
with  the  effort  to  keep  their  balance  on  the  polished  floors, 
their  eyes  increasingly  glazed  and  dull.  For  a  time  a  few 
eccentric  faces  or  dresses  among  the  other  sightseers  pene- 
trated through  this  merciful  insensibility,  but  by  noon  the 
capacity  for  even  so  much  observation  as  this  had  left  them. 
They  set  one  foot  before  the  other,  they  directed  their  eyes 
upon  the  multitudinous  objects  exhibited,  they  nodded  their 
heads  to  comments  made  by  the  others,  but  if  asked  sud- 
denly what  they  had  just  seen  in  the  room  last  visited, 
neither  of  them  could  have  made  the  faintest  guess. 

At  half-past  twelve,  their  aunt  and  mother,  highly  self- 
congratulatory  over  the  educational  morning,  voted  that 
enough  was  as  good  as  a  feast,  and  led  their  stunned  and 
stupefied  charges  away  to  Aunt  Victoria's  hotel  for  lunch. 

It  was  while  they  were  consuming  this  exceedingly  appe- 
tizing meal  that  Sylvia  saw,  threading  his  way  towards 
them  between  the  other  tables,  a  tall,  weedy,  expensively 

123 


124  The  Bent  Twig 

dressed  young  man,  with  a  pale  freckled  face  and  light- 
brown  hair.  When  he  saw  her  eyes  on  him  he  waved  his 
hand,  a  largely  knuckled  hand,  and  grinned.  Then  she  saw 
that  it  was  not  a  young  man,  but  a  tall  boy,  and  that  the 
boy  was  Arnold.  The  quality  of  the  grin  reminded  her  that 
she  had  always  liked  Arnold. 

His  arrival,  though  obviously  unexpected  to  the  last  de- 
gree, caused  less  of  a  commotion  than  might  have  seemed 
natural.  It  was  as  if  this  were  for  Aunt  Victoria  only  an 
unexpected  incident  in  a  general  development,  quite  re- 
signedly anticipated.  After  he  had  shaken  hands  with 
everybody,  and  had  sat  down  and  ordered  his  own  luncheon 
very  capably,  his  stepmother  remarked  in  a  tolerant  tone, 
"  You  didn't  get  my  telegram,  then  ?  "  He  shook  his  head : 
"  I  started  an  hour  or  so  after  I  wired  you.  We'd  gone 
down  to  the  town  with  one  of  the  masters  for  a  game  with 
Concord.  There  was  a  train  just  pulling  out  as  we  went 
by  the  station,  and  I  ran  and  jumped  on." 

"  How'd  you  know  where  it  was  going?"  challenged 
Judith. 

"  I  didn't,"  he  explained  lightly.  He  looked  at  her  with 
the  teasing,  provocative  look  of  masculine  seventeen  for 
feminine  thirteen.  "  Same  old  spitfire,  I  see,  Miss  Judy," 
he  said,  his  command  of  unhackneyed  phrases  by  no  means 
commensurate  with  his  desire  to  be  facetious. 

Judith  frowned  and  went  on  eating  her  eclair  in  silence. 
It  was  the  first  eclair  she  had  ever  eaten,  and  she  was  more 
concerned  with  it  than  with  the  new  arrival. 

Nobody  made  any  comment  on  Arnold's  method  of  be- 
ginning journeys  until  Mrs.  Marshall  asked,  "  What  did 
you  do  it  for  ? "  She  put  the  question  with  an  evident 
seriousness  of  inquiry,  not  at  all  with  the  rhetorical  re- 
proach usually  conveyed  in  the  formula  she  used. 

Arnold  looked  up  from  the  huge,  costly,  bloody  beef- 
steak he  was  eating  and,  after  an  instant's  survey  of  the 
grave,  kind,  face  opposite  him,  answered  with  a  seriousness 
like  her  own,  "  Because  I  wanted  to  get  away."  He  added 
after  a  moment,  laughing  and  looking  again  at  the  younger 


Arnold's  Future  Is  Casually  Decided     125 

girl,  "  I  wanted  to  come  out  and  pull  Judy's  hair  again ! " 
He  spoke  with  his  mouth  full,  and  this  made  him  entirely 
a  boy  and  not  at  all  the  young  man  his  well-cut  clothes 
made  him  appear. 

Without  speaking,  Judith  pulled  her  long,  smooth  braid 
around  over  her  shoulder  where  she  could  protect  the  end 
of  it.  Her  mouth  was  also  full,  bulgingly,  of  the  last  of  her 
eclair.  They  might  have  been  brother  and  sister  in  a  com- 
mon nursery. 

"  My !  Aren't  you  pretty,  Sylvia !  "  was  Arnold's  next 
remark.  "  You're  a  regular  peach ;  do  you  know  it  ?  "  He 
turned  to  the  others :  "  Say,  let's  go  to  a  show  this  after- 
noon," he  proposed.  "  Tling-Tling's  in  town.  I  saw  it  in 
the  papers  as  I  came  in.  The  original  company's  singing. 
Did  you  ever  hear  them  ?  "  he  asked  Sylvia.  "  They  beat  the 
other  road  companies  all  hollow." 

Sylvia  shook  her  head.  She  had  never  heard  the  name 
before,  the  Broadway  brand  of  comic  opera  being  outside 
her  experience  to  a  degree  which  would  have  been  incon- 
ceivable to  Arnold. 

There  was  some  discussion  over  the  matter,  but  in  the  end, 
apparently  because  there  was  nothing  else  to  do  with  Arnold, 
they  all  did  go  to  the  "  show,"  Arnold  engineering  the  ex- 
pedition with  a  trained  expertness  in  the  matter  of  ticket- 
sellers,  cabs,  and  ushers  which  was  in  odd  contrast  to 
his  gawky  physical  immaturity.  At  all  the  stages  of  the 
process  where  it  was  possible,  he  smoked  cigarettes,  pro- 
ducing them  in  rapid  succession  out  of  a  case  studded  with 
little  pearls.  His  stepmother  looked  on  at  this,  her  beauti- 
ful manner  of  wise  tolerance  tightening  up  a  little,  and  after 
dinner,  as  they  sat  in  a  glittering  corridor  of  the  hotel  to 
talk,  she  addressed  him  suddenly  in  a  quite  different  tone. 
"  I  don't  want  you  to  do  that  so  much,  Arnold,"  she  said. 
His  hand  was  fumbling  for  his  case  again.  "  You're  too 
young  to  smoke  at  all,"  she  said  definitely.  He  went  on 
with  his  automatic  movements,  opening  the  case,  taking  out 
a  cigarette  and  tapping  it  on  the  cover.  "  Oh,  all  the  fel- 
lows do,"  he  said  rebelliously,  and  struck  a  match. 


126  The  Bent  Twig 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  aroused  herself  to  a  sudden,  low- 
toned,  iron  masterfulness  of  voice  and  manner  which,  for 
all  its  quietness,  had  the  quality  of  a  pistol  shot  in  the 
family  group.  She  said  only,  "  Put  away  that  cigarette  " ; 
but  by  one  effort  of  her  will  she  massed  against  the  rebellion 
of  his  disorganized  adolescence  her  mature,  well-ripened 
capacity  to  get  her  own  way.  She  held  him  with  her  eyes 
as  an  animal-trainer  is  supposed  to  cow  his  snarling,  yellow- 
fanged  captives,  and  in  a  moment  Arnold,  with  a  pettish 
gesture,  blew  out  the  match  and  shut  the  cigarette  case  with 
a  snap.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  forbore  to  over-emphasize 
her  victory  by  a  feather-weight  of  gloating,  and  turned  to 
her  sister-in-law  with  a  whimsical  remark  about  the  pre- 
posterousness  of  one  of  the  costumes  passing.  Arnold 
sulked  in  silence  until  Judith,  emerging  from  her  usual 
self-contained  reticence,  made  her  first  advance  to  him. 
"  Let's  us  all  go  there  by  the  railing  where  we  can  look 
down  into  the  central  court,"  she  suggested,  and  having  a 
nodded  permission  from  their  elders,  the  three  children 
walked  away. 

They  looked  down  into  the  great  marble  court,  far  below 
them,  now  fairy-like  with  carefully  arranged  electric  lights, 
gleaming  through  the  palms.  The  busily  trampling  cohorts 
in  sack-coats  and  derby  hats  were,  from  here,  subdued  by 
distance  to  an  aesthetic  inoffensiveness  of  mere  ant-like  com- 
ings and  goings. 

"  Not  so  bad,"  said  Arnold,  with  a  kindly  willingness  tc 
be  pleased,  looking  about  him  discriminatingly  at  one  detail 
after  another  of  the  interior,  the  heavy  velvet  and  gold 
bullion  of  the  curtains,  the  polished  marble  of  the  paneling, 
the  silk  brocade  of  the  upholstery,  the  heavy  gilding  of  the 
chairs.  .  .  .  Everything  in  sight  exhaled  an  intense  con- 
sciousness of  high  cost,  which  was  heavy  on  the  air  like  a 
musky  odor,  suggesting  to  a  sensitive  nose,  as  does  the  odor 
of  musk,  another  smell,  obscured  but  rancidly  perceptible 
— the  unwashed  smell,  floating  up  from  the  paupers'  cellars 
which  support  Aladdin's  palaces  of  luxury. 

But  the  three  adolescents,  hanging  over  the  well-designed 


Arnold's  Future  Is  Casually  Decided     127 

solid  mahogany  railing,  had  not  noses  sensitive  to  this 
peculiar,  very  common  blending  of  odors.  Judith,  in  fact, 
was  entirely  unconscious  even  of  the  more  obvious  of  the 
two.  She  was  as  insensitive  to  all  about  her  as  to  the  too- 
abundant  pictures  of  the  morning.  She  might  have  been 
leaning  over  a  picket  fence.  "  I  wouldn't  give  in  to  Her !  " 
she  said  to  Arnold,  staring  squarely  at  him. 

Arnold  looked  nettled.  "  Oh,  I  don't !  I  don't  pay  any 
attention  to  what  she  says,  except  when  she's  around  where 
I  am,  and  that's  not  so  often  you  could  notice  it  much! 
Saunders  isn't  that  kind !  Saunders  is  a  gay  old  bird,  I  tell 
you !  We  have  some  times  together  when  we  get 
going ! " 

It  dawned  on  Sylvia  that  he  was  speaking  of  the  man  who, 
five  years  before,  had  been  their  young  Professor  Saunders. 
She  found  that  she  remembered  vividly  his  keen,  handsome 
face,  softened  by  music  to  quiet  peace.  She  wondered  what 
Arnold  meant  by  saying  he  was  a  gay  old  bird. 

Arnold  went  on,  shaking  his  head  sagely :  "  But  it's 
my  belief  that  Saunders  is  beginning  to  take  to  dope  .  .  . 
bad  business !  Bad  business !  He's  in  love  with  Ma- 
drina,  you  know,  and  has  to  drown  his  sorrows  some 
way." 

Even  Judith,  for  all  her  Sioux  desire  to  avoid  seeming 
surprised  or  impressed,  could  not  restrain  a  rather  startled 
look  at  this  lordly  knowledge  of  the  world.  Sylvia,  although 
she  had  scarcely  taken  in  the  significance  of  Arnold's  words, 
dropped  her  eyes  and  blushed.  Arnold  surveyed  them  with 
the  indulgent  look  of  a  rakish  but  good-hearted  man  of  the 
world  patting  two  pretty  children  on  the  head. 

Judith  upset  his  pose  by  bringing  the  talk  abruptly  back 
to  where  she  had  begun  it.  "  But  you  did  give  in  to  her ! 
You  pretend  you  didn't  because  you  are  ashamed.  She  just 
looked  you  down.  I  wouldn't  let  anyhody  look  me  down. 
I  wouldn't  give  in  to  anybody ! " 

Under  this  attack,  the  man  of  the  world  collapsed  into  an 
awkward  overgrown  boy,  ill  at  ease,  with  red  lids  to  his  eyes 
and  premature  yellow  stains  on  two  fingers  of  his  left  hand. 


128  The  Bent  Twig 

He  shifted  his  feet  and  said  defensively :  "  Aw,  she's  a 
woman.  A  fellow  can't  knock  her  down.  I  wouldn't  let  a 
man  do  it."  He  retreated  still  further,  through  another 
phase,  and  became  a  little  boy,  heated  and  recriminatory: 
"  I'd  like  to  know  who  you  are  to  talk !  You  give  in  to  your 
mother  all  the  time !  " 

"  I  don't  give  in  to  my  mother ;  I  mind  her,"  said  Judith, 
drawing  a  distinction  which  Arnold  could  not  follow  but 
which  he  was  not  acute  enough  to  attack  other  than  by  a 
jeering,  "  Oh,  what  a  crawl !    What's  the  difT?  " 

"  And  I  mind  her  whether  she's  there  or  not !  /  do !  " 
continued  Judith,  pressing  what  she  seemed,  inexplicably  to 
Arnold,  to  consider  her  advantage. 

Sylvia  was  vexed  with  them  for  talking  so  loudly  and 
getting  so  red-faced  and  being  so  generally  out  of  key  with 
the  booming  note  of  luxury  resounding  about  them.  "  Hush ! 
hush !  "  she  said ;  "  don't  be  so  silly.  We  ought  to  be 
going  back." 

Arnold  took  her  rebuke  without  protest.  Either  some- 
thing in  this  passage-at-arms  had  perversely  brought  a  sud- 
den impulse  to  his  mind,  or  he  had  all  along  a  purpose  in 
his  fantastic  trip  West.  As  they  reached  the  two  ladies,  he 
burst  out,  "  Say,  Madrina,  why  couldn't  I  go  on  to  La 
Chance  and  go  to  school  there,  and  live  with  the  Mar- 
shall ?" 

Four  amazed  faces  were  turned  on  him.  His  stepmother 
evidently  thought  him  stricken  with  sudden  insanity  and 
strove  distractedly  to  select,  from  the  heaped  pile  of  her 
reasons  for  so  thinking,  some  few  which  might  be  cited 
without  too  great  offense  to  her  brother's  mode  of  life: 
"  Why,  what  a  strange  idea,  Arnold !  What  ever  made  you 
think  of  such  a  thing  ?  You  wouldn't  like  it ! "  She  was 
going  on,  as  in  decency  bound,  to  add  that  it  would  be  also 
rather  a  large  order  for  the  Marshalls  to  adopt  a  notably 
"  difficult "  boy,  when  Judith  broke  in  with  a  blunt  divina- 
tion of  what  was  in  her  aunt's  mind.  "  You'd  have  to  wash 
dishes  if  you  came  to  our  house,"  she  said,  "  and  help  peel 
potatoes,  and  weed  the  celery  bed." 


Arnold's  Future  Is  Casually  Decided     129 

"I'd  like  it!"  declared  Arnold.  "We'd  have  lots  of 
fun." 

"  I  bet  we  would ! "  said  Judith,  with  an  unexpected 
assent. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  laughed  gently.  "  You  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about,  you  silly  boy.  You  never  did 
an  hour's  work  in  your  life ! " 

Arnold  sat  down  by  Mrs.  Marshall.  "  I  wouldn't  be  in 
the  way,  would  I  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  clumsy  pleading.  He 
hesitated  obviously  over  the  "  Mother  "  which  had  risen  to 
his  lips,  the  name  he  had  had  for  her  during  the  momentous 
visit  of  five  years  before,  and  finally,  blushing,  could  not 
bring  it  out.  "  I'd  like  it  like  anything!  I  wouldn't  be  .  .  . 
I'd  be  different!  Sylvie  and  Judy  seem  like  little  sisters  to 
me."  The  red  on  his  face  deepened.  "  It's — it's  good  for  a 
fellow  to  have  sisters,  and  a  home,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone  not 
audible  to  his  stepmother's  ears. 

Mrs.  Marshall  put  out  a  large,  strong  hand  and  took  his 
slack,  big-knuckled  fingers  into  a  tight  clasp.  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall-Smith evidently  thought  a  light  tone  best  now,  as  al- 
ways, to  take.  "  I  tell  you,  Barbara  " — she  suggested  laugh- 
ingly, "  we'll  exchange.  You  give  me  Sylvia,  and  take 
Arnold." 

Mrs.  Marshall  ignored  this  as  pure  facetiousness,  and 
said  seriously :  "  Why  really,  Victoria,  it  might  not  be  a 
bad  thing  for  Arnold  to  come  to  us.  I  know  Elliott  would 
be  glad  to  have  him,  and  so  would  I." 

For  an  instant  Arnold's  life  hung  in  the  balance.  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith,  gleaming  gold  and  ivory  in  her  evening- 
dress  of  amber  satin,  sat  silent,  startled  by  the  suddenness 
with  which  the  whole  astonishing  question  had  come  up. 
There  was  in  her  face  more  than  one  hint  that  the  proposi- 
tion opened  a  welcome  door  of  escape  to  her.  .  .  . 

And  then  Arnold  himself,  with  the  tragic  haste  of  youth, 
sent  one  end  of  the  scales  down,  weighted  so  heavily  that 
the  sight  of  his  stepmother's  eyes  and  mouth  told  him  it 
could  never  rise  again.  In  the  little,  pregnant  pause,  he 
cried  out  joyfully,  "  Oh,  Mother !  Mother !  "  and  flung  his 


130  The  Bent  Twig 

arms  around  Mrs.  Marshall's  neck.  It  was  the  only  time  he 
had  shown  the  slightest  emotion  over  anything.  It  burst 
from  him  with  surprising  effect. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  was,  as  she  had  said,  only  human, 
and  at  this  she  rose,  her  delicate  face  quiet  and  impassive, 
and  shook  out  the  shimmering  folds  of  her  beautiful  dress. 
She  said  casually,  picking  up  her  fan  and  evidently  prepar- 
ing for  some  sort  of  adjournment:  "  Oh,  Arnold,  don't  be 
so  absurd.  Of  course  you  can't  foist  yourself  off  on  a 
family  that's  no  relation  to  you,  that  way.  And  in  any 
case,  it  wouldn't  do  for  you  to  graduate  from  a  co-educa- 
tional State  University.  Not  a  person  you  know  would 
have  heard  of  it.  You  know  you're  due  at  Harvard  next 
fall."  With  adroit  fingers,  she  plucked  the  string  sure 
to  vibrate  in  Arnold's  nature.  H.  Do  go  and  order  a  table  for 
us  in  the  Rose-Room,  there's  a  good  boy.  And  be  sure 
to  have  the  waiter  give  you  one  where  we  can  see  the 
dancing." 

The  matter  was  settled. 


CHAPTER  XII 
ONE  MAN'S  MEAT  .  .  . 

That  night  after  the  Marshalls  had  gone  back  to  their 
somewhat  shabby  boarding-house,  "  things  "  happened  to  the 
two  people  they  had  left  in  the  great  hotel.  Sylvia  and 
Judith  never  knew  the  details,  but  it  was  apparent  that 
something  portentous  had  occurred,  from  the  number  of  tele- 
grams Aunt  Victoria  had  managed  to  receive  and  send  be- 
tween the  hour  when  they  left  her  in  the  evening,  and 
eleven  o'clock  the  next  morning,  when  they  found  her, 
hatted  and  veiled,  with  an  array  of  strapped  baggage  around 
her. 

"  It's  Arnold  again !  "  she  told  them,  with  a  resigned 
gesture.  She  laid  down  the  time-table  she  had  been  con- 
sulting and  drew  Mrs.  Marshall  to  the  window  for  a  low- 
voiced  explanation.  When  she  came  back,  "  I'm  so  sorry, 
dears,  to  cut  short  even  by  a  single  day  this  charming  time 
together,"  she  told  the  girls.  "  But  the  news  I've  been  get- 
ting from  Arnold's  school — there's  nothing  for  me  to  do 
but  to  stop  everything  and  take  him  back  there  to  see  what 
can  be  done  to  patch  things  up."  She  spoke  with  the 
patient  air  of  one  inured  to  the  sacrifices  involved  in  the 
upbringing  of  children.  "  We  leave  on  the  eleven-forty — 
oh,  I  am  so  sorry!  But  it  would  have  been  only  one  day 
more.  I  meant  to  get  you  both  a  dress — I've  'phoned  to 
have  them  sent  to  you." 

The  rest  was  only  the  dreary,  bustling  futility  of  the  last 
moments  before  train-time — kisses,  remarks  about  writ- 
ing more  often;  a  promise  from  Aunt  Victoria  to  send 
Sylvia  from  time  to  time  a  box  of  old  dresses  and  fineries 
as  material  for  her  niece's  dressmaking  skill ; — from  Arnold, 
appearing  at  the  last  minute,  a  good  deal  of  rather  flat,  well- 

131 


132  The  Bent  Twig 

meant  chaffing,  proffered  with  the  most  entire  unconcern  as 
to  the  expressed  purpose  of  their  journey;  and  then  the 
descent  through  long,  mirrored,  softly  carpeted  corridors  to 
the  classic  beauty  of  the  Grecian  temple  where  the  busy 
men,  with  tired  eyes,  came  and  went  hurriedly,  treading 
heavily  on  their  heels.  Outside  was  the  cab,  Arnold  ex- 
tremely efficient  in  browbeating  the  driver  as  to  the  stowing 
away  of  bags,  more  kisses,  in  the  general  cloud  of  which 
Arnold  pecked  shyly  at  Sylvia's  ear  and  Judith's  chin ;  then 
the  retreating  vehicle  with  Arnold  standing  up,  a  tall, 
ungainly  figure,  waving  a  much-jointed  hand. 

After  it  was  out  of  sight  the  three  watchers  looked  at 
each  other  in  a  stale  moment  of  anticlimax. 

"  Arnold's  horrid,  isn't  he  ?  "  said  Judith  thoughtfully. 

"  Why,  I  like  him ! "  opposed  Sylvia. 

"  Oh,  I  like  him,  all  right,"  said  Judith. 

Then  both  girls  looked  at  their  mother.  What  next  .  .  .  ? 
They  were  not  to  have  gone  back  to  La  Chance  until  the 
next  night.  Would  this  change  of  plans  alter  their  schedule  ? 
Mrs.  Marshall  saw  no  reason  why  it  should.  She  proposed 
a  sightseeing  expedition  to  a  hospital.  Miss  Lindstrom,  the 
elderly  Swedish  woman  who  worked  among  the  destitute 
negroes  of  La  Chance,  had  a  sister  who  was  head-nurse  in 
the  biggest  and  newest  hospital  in  Chicago,  and  she  had 
written  very  cordially  that  if  her  sister's  friends  cared  to 
inspect  such  an  institution,  she  was  at  their  service.  Neither 
of  the  girls  having  the  slightest  idea  of  what  a  hospital  was 
like,  nor  of  any  other  of  the  sights  in  the  city  which  they 
might  see  instead,  no  objection  was  made  to  this  plan. 

They  made  inquiries  of  a  near-by  policeman  and  found 
that  they  could  reach  it  by  the  elevated.  Their  encounter 
with  this  metropolitan  facility  for  transportation  turned 
out  to  be  among  the  most  memorable  bits  of  sightseeing  of 
their  trip.  Neither  of  the  girls  had  ever  imagined  anything 
so  lurid  as  the  Saturday  noon  jam,  the  dense,  packed  throngs 
waiting  on  the  platforms  and  bursting  out  through  the 
opened  doors  like  beans  from  a  split  bag,  their  places  in- 
stantly taken  by  an  even  greater  crowd,  perspiring,  fighting 


One  Man's  Meat  ...  133 

grimly  for  foot-room  and  expecting  and  receiving  no  other 
kind.  Judith  was  fired  contagiously  with  the  spirit  about 
her,  set  her  teeth,  thrust  out  her  elbows,  shoved,  pushed, 
grunted,  fought,  all  with  a  fresh  zest  in  the  performance 
which  gave  her  an  immense  advantage  over  the  fatigued 
city-dwellers,  who  assaulted  their  fellow-citizens  with  only 
a  preoccupied  desire  for  an  approach  to  a  breathing  space, 
and,  that  attained,  subsided  into  lurching,  strap-hanging 
quiescence.  Judith  secured  with  ease,  on  all  the  public 
vehicles  they  utilized  that  day,  a  place  on  the  outside  edge  of 
a  platform,  where  she  had  fresh  air  in  abundance  and  could 
hang  over  the  grating  to  watch  with  extreme  interest  the  in- 
timate bits  of  tenement-house  life  which  flashed  jerkily  by. 

But  Sylvia,  a  shuddering  chip  on  the  torrent,  always 
found  herself  in  the  exact  middle  of  the  most  crowded  spot, 
feeling  her  body  horrifyingly  pressed  upon  by  various  in- 
visible ones  behind  her  and  several  only  too  visible  ones  in 
front,  breathing  down  the  back  of  somebody's  neck,  often  a 
dirty  and  sweaty  one,  with  somebody  breathing  hotly  down 
the  back  of  her  own.  Once  as  a  very  fat  and  perspiring 
German-American  began  to  fight  the  crowd  in  the  endeavor 
to  turn  around  and  leave  the  car,  his  slowly  revolving  bulb- 
ous bulk  pushed  her  so  smotheringly  into  the  broad  back  of 
a  negro  ahead  of  her  that  she  felt  faint.  As  they  left  the 
car,  she  said  vehemently :  "  Oh,  Mother,  this  makes  me 
sick !  Why  couldn't  we  have  taken  a  cab  ?  Aunt  Victoria 
always  does ! " 

Her  mother  laughed.  "  You  little  country  girl !  A  cab 
for  as  far  as  this  would  cost  almost  as  much  as  the  ticket 
back  to  La  Chance." 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  came,  then !  "  cried  Sylvia.  "  It's 
simply  awful !  And  this  is  a  horrid  part  of  town !  "  She 
suddenly  observed  that  they  were  walking  through  a  very 
poor,  thickly  inhabited  street,  such  as  she  had  never  seen 
before.  As  she  looked  about  her,  her  mother  stopped  laugh- 
ing and  watched  her  face  with  a  painful  attention.  Sylvia 
looked  at  the  tall,  dingy  houses,  the  frowzy  little  shops,  the 
swarms  of  dirty-nosed  children,  shrill-voiced,  with  matted 


134  The  Bent  Twig 

hair,  running  and  whooping  in  the  street,  at  the  slatternly 
women  yelling  unobeyed  orders  to  them  out  of  half- 
glimpsed,  cheerless  interiors,  smelling  of  cabbage  and  dish- 
water. It  was  Sylvia's  first  sight  of  the  life  of  city  poor, 
and  upon  her  face  of  disgust  and  revulsion  her  mother  bent 
a  stern  and  anxious  eye. 

"  See  here,  Sylvia ! "  she  said  abruptly,  "  do  you  know 
what  /  was  thinking  about  back  there  in  the  crowd  on  the 
elevated?  I  was  thinking  that  lots  of  girls,  no  older  than 
my  girl,  have  to  stand  that  twice  a  day,  going  to  earn  their 
livings." 

Sylvia  chafed  under  the  obviously  admonitory  tone  of  this. 
"  I  don't  see  that  that  makes  it  any  easier  for  us  if  they 
do!"  she  said  in  a  recalcitrant  voice.  She  stepped  wide 
to  avoid  a  pile  of  filth  on  the  sidewalk,  and  clutched  at 
her  skirt.  She  had  a  sudden  vision  of  the  white-tiled, 
velvet-carpeted  florist's  shop  in  a  corner  of  Aunt  Victoria's 
hotel  where,  behind  spotless  panes  of  shining  plate-glass, 
the  great  clusters  of  cut-flowers  dreamed  away  an  enchanted 
life — roses,  violets,  lilies  of  the  valley,  orchids.  .  .  . 

"  Here  we  are  at  the  hospital,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall,  a 
perplexed  line  of  worry  between  her  brows.  But  at  once 
she  was  swept  out  of  herself,  forgot  her  seriously  taken 
responsibility  of  being  the  mother  of  a  girl  like  Sylvia.  She 
was  only  Barbara  Marshall,  thrilled  by  a  noble  spectacle. 
She  looked  up  at  the  great,  clean,  many-windowed  facade 
above  them,  towering,  even  above  the  huge  bulk  of  the 
gas-tanks  across  the  street,  and  her  dark  eyes  kindled. 
"  A  hospital  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful  places  in  the 
world  I  "  she  cried,  in  a  voice  of  emotion.  "  All  this — to 
help  people  get  well !  " 

They  passed  into  a  wide,  bare  hall,  where  a  busy  young 
woman  at  a  desk  nodded  on  hearing  their  names,  and  spoke 
into  a  telephone.  There  was  an  odd  smell  in  the  air,  not 
exactly  disagreeable,  yet  rather  uncomfortably  pungent. 
"  Oh,  iodoform,"  remarked  the  young  woman  at  the  desk, 
hearing  them  comment  on  it.  "  Do  you  get  it  ?  We  don't 
notice  it  here  at  all." 


f) 


One  Man's  Meat  ...  135 

Then  came  Miss  Lindstrom's  sister,  powerfully  built, 
gaunt,  gray,  with  a  professional,  impersonal  cheerfulness. 
The  expedition  began.  "  I'll  take  you  to  the  children's 
ward  first,"  said  Miss  Lindstrom ;  "  that  always  interests 
visitors  so  much.  .  .  ." 

Rows  on  rows  of  little  white  beds  and  white,  bloodless 
faces  with  an  awful  patience  on  them,  and  little  white  hands 
lying  in  unchildlike  quiet  on  the  white  spreads;  rows  on 
rows  of  hollow  eyes  turned  in  listless  interest  on  the  visitors ; 
nurses  in  white,  stepping  briskly  about,  bending  over  the 
beds,  lifting  a  little  emaciated  form,  deftly  unrolling  a 
bandage ;  heat ;  a  stifling  smell  of  iodoform ;  a  sharp  sudden 
cry  of  pain  from  a  distant  corner;  somewhere  a  dully 
beating  pulse  of  low,  suppressed  sobs.  .  .  . 

They  were  out  of  the  children's  ward  now,  walking  along 
a  clean  bare  corridor.  Sylvia  swallowed  hard.  Her  eyes 
felt  burning.  Judith  held  her  mother's  hand  tightly.  Miss 
Lindstrom  was  explaining  to  Mrs.  Marshall  a  new  system 
of  ventilation. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  women's  wards,"  said  their  leader, 
opening  another  swinging  door,  from  which  rushed  forth  a 
fresh  blast  of  iodoform.  More  rows  of  white  beds,  each 
with  its  mound  of  suffering,  each  with  its  haggard  face 
of  pain.  More  nurses,  bearing  basins  of  curious  shape, 
bandages,  hot-water  bottles,  rubber  tubes.  There  was  more 
restlessness  here  than  in  the  children's  ward,  less  helpless 
prostration  before  the  Juggernaut  of  disease  .  .  .  fretful- 
ness,  moans,  tossing  heads,  wretched  eyes  which  stared  at 
the  visitors  in  a  hostile  indifference. 

"  Oh,  they  are  just  putting  the  dressing  on  such  an 
interesting  case !  "  said  Miss  Lindstrom's  voice  coming  to 
Sylvia  from  a  great  distance.  She  spoke  with  the  glow  of 
professional  enthusiasm,  with  that  certainty,  peculiar  to 
sincere  doctors  and  nurses,  that  a  complicated  wound  is  a 
fascinating  object. 

In  spite  of  herself  Sylvia  had  one  glimpse  of  horribly 
lacerated  red  tissues.  .  .  .  She  gripped  her  hands  together 
after  this  and  looked  fixedly  at  a  button  on  her  glove,  until 


136  The  Bent  Twig 

Miss  Lindstrom's  voice  announced :  "  It's  the  Embury  stitch 
that  makes  that  possible :  we've  just  worked  out  the  applica- 
tion of  it  to  skin-graft  cases.  Two  years  ago  she'd  have  lost 
her  leg.     Isn't  it  simply  splendid ! 

She  said  cordially  as  they  moved  forward :  "  Sister  Selma 
said  to  treat  you  as  though  you  were  the  Queen  of  Sweden, 
and  I  am!  You're  seeing  things  that  visitors  are  never 
allowed  to  see." 

They  walked  on  and  on  interminably,  past  innumerable 
sick  souls,  each  whirling  alone  in  a  self-centered  storm  of 
suffering;  and  then,  somehow,  they  were  in  a  laboratory, 
where  an  immensely  stout  and  immensely  jovial  doctor  in 
white  linen  got  down  from  a  high  stool  to  shake  hands  with 
them  and  profess  an  immense  willingness  to  entertain  them. 
"...  but  I  haven't  got  anything  much  today,"  he  said, 
with  a  disparaging  wave  of  his  hand  towards  his  test-tubes. 
"Not  a  single  death-warrant.  Oh  yes,  I  have  too,  one 
brought  in  yesterday."  He  brought  them  a  test-tube,  stop- 
pered with  cotton,  and  bade  them  note  a  tiny  bluish  patch 
on  the  clear  gelatine  at  the  bottom.  "  That  means  he's  a 
dead  one,  as  much  as  if  he  faced  the  electric  chair,"  he 
explained.  To  the  nurse  he  added,  "  A  fellow  in  the  men's 
ward,  Pavilion  G.  Very  interesting  culture  .  .  .  first  of 
that  kind  I've  had  since  I've  been  here."  As  he  spoke  he 
was  looking  at  Sylvia  with  an  open  admiration,  bold,  in- 
trusive, flippant. 

They  were  passing  along  another  corridor,  hot,  silent, 
their  footsteps  falling  dully  on  a  long  runner  of  corrugated 
rubber,  with  red  borders  which  drew  together  in  the  distance 
like  the  rails  streaming  away  from  a  train.  Behind  a  closed 
door  there  suddenly  rose,  and  as  quickly  died  away,  a 
scream  of  pain.  With  an  effort  Sylvia  resisted  the  impulse 
to  clap  her  hands  over  her  ears. 

"  Here  we  are,  at  the  minor  operating-room,"  said  Miss 
Lindstrom,  pausing.  "  It's  against  the  rules,  but  if  you 
want  to  look  from  across  the  room — just  to  say  you've 
been  there — "  She  held  the  door  open  a  little,  a  suffo- 
cating odor  of  anaesthetics  blew  out  in  their  faces,  like  a 


One  Man's  Meat  ...  137 

breath  from  a  dragon's  cave.  Mrs.  Marshall  and  Judith 
stepped  forward.  But  Sylvia  clutched  at  her  mother's  arm 
and  whispered:  "  Mother!  Mother!  I  don't  think  I'll  go  on. 
I  feel — I  feel — I'll  go  back  down  to  the  entrance  hall  to 
wait." 

Mrs.  Marshall  nodded  a  preoccupied  assent,  and  Sylvia 
fled  away  down  the  endless  corridor,  looking  neither  to  the 
right  nor  the  left,  down  repeated  flights  of  scrubbed  and 
sterilized  marble  stairs,  into  the  entrance  hall,  and,  like  a 
bolt  from  a  bow,  out  of  it  on  the  other  side,  out  into  the 
street,  into  the  sunshine,  the  heat,  the  clatter,  the  blessed, 
blessed  smell  of  cabbage  and  dish-water.  .  .  . 

After  a  time  she  went  to  sit  down  on  the  top  step  of  the 
hospital  entrance  to  wait.  She  contemplated  with  exquisite 
enjoyment  the  vigorous,  profane,  hair-pulling  quarrel  be- 
tween two  dirty  little  savages  across  the  street.  She  could 
have  kissed  her  hand  to  the  loud-voiced  woman  who  came 
scuffling  to  the  window  to  scold  them,  clutching  a  dirty 
kimono  together  over  a  Hogarth-like  expanse  of  bosom. 
They  were  well,  these  people,  blood  ran  in  their  veins,  their 
skin  was  whole,  they  breathed  air,  not  iodoform!  Her 
mother  had  pulled  the  string  too  tight,  and  Sylvia's  ears 
were  full  of  the  ugly  twang  of  its  snapping. 

When,  at  last,  Judith  and  Mrs.  Marshall  came  out,  hand- 
in-hand,  Sylvia  sprang  up  to  say :  "  What  an  awful  place ! 
I  hope  I'll  never  have  to  set  foot  in  one  again !  "  But  quick 
as  was  her  impulse  to  speech,  her  perceptions  were  quicker, 
and  before  the  pale  exaltation  of  the  other  two,  she  fell 
silent,  irritated,  rebellious,  thoroughly  alien.  They  walked 
along  in  silence.  Then  Judith  said,  stammering  a  little  with 
emotion,  "  M-M-Mother,  I  want  to  b-b-b-be  a  trained 
n-n-nurse  when  I  grow  up." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
AN  INSTRUMENT  IN  TUNE 

As  they  drew  near  to  their  boarding-house  late  that  after- 
noon, very  hot,  very  crumpled,  very  solemn,  and  very  much 
out  of  tune  with  one  another,  they  were  astonished  to  see 
a  little  eager-faced  boy  dash  out  of  the  house  and  run 
wildly  to  meet  them,  shouting  as  he  came. 

"Why,  Lawrence  Marshall!"  cried  his  mother,  picking 
him  up  in  strong  arms;  "how  ever  in  the  world  did  you 
get  here ! " 

"  Father  brungded  me,"  cried  the  child,  clasping  her 
tightly  around  the  neck.  "  We  got  so  lonesome  for  Mother 
we  couldn't  wait." 

And  then  Sylvia  had  stamped  on  her  mind  a  picture  which 
was  to  come  back  later — her  father's  face  and  eyes  as  he 
ran  down  the  steps  to  meet  his  wife.  For  he  looked  at  his 
daughters  only  afterwards,  as  they  were  all  walking  along 
together,  much  excited,  everybody  talking  at  once,  and 
hanging  on  everybody's  arm.  ".  .  .  Yes,  Buddy's  right! 
We  found  we  missed  you  so,  we  decided  life  wasn't  worth  it. 
You  don't  know,  Barbara,  what  it's  like  without  you — you 
don't  know! " 

Her  father's  voice  sounded  to  Sylvia  so  loud,  so  gay,  so 
vital,  so  inexpressibly  welcome.  .  .  .  She  leaped  up  at  his 
face  like  a  young  dog,  for  another  kiss.  w  Oh,  I'm  awfully 
glad  you  came !  "  she  cried,  wondering  a  little  herself  at  the 
immensity  of  her  relief.  She  thought  that  she  must  get 
him  by  himself  quickly  and  tell  him  her  side  of  that  hos- 
pital story,  before  her  mother  and  Judith  began  on  any 
virtuous  raptures  over  it. 

But  there  was  no  consecutive  talk  about  anything  after 
they  all  were  joyfully  gathered  in  their  ugly,  commonplace 

138 


An  Instrument  in  Tune  139 

boarding-house  bedroom.  They  loosened  collars  and  belts, 
washed  their  perspiring  and  dusty  faces,  and  brushed 
hair,  to  the  tune  of  a  magpie  chatter.  Sylvia  did  not 
realize  that  she  and  her  father  were  the  main  sources  of 
this  volubility,  she  did  not  realize  how  she  had  missed  his 
exuberance,  she  only  knew  that  she  felt  a  weight  lifted  from 
her  heart.  She  had  been  telling  him  with  great  enjoyment 
of  the  comic  opera  they  had  seen,  as  she  finished  putting 
the  hairpins  into  her  freshly  smoothed  hair,  and  turned,  a 
pin  still  in  her  mouth,  in  time  to  be  almost  abashed  by  the 
expression  in  his  eyes  as  he  suddenly  drew  his  wife  to  him. 

"  Jove !  Barbara !  "  he  cried,  half  laughing,  but  with  a 
quiver  in  his  voice,  "  it's  hell  to  be  happily  married !  A 
separation  is — well,  never  mind  about  it.  I  came  along 
anyhow !    And  now  I'm  here  I'll  go  to  see  Vic  of  course. " 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  Judith  promptly.  "  She's  gone 
back.    To  get  Arnold  out  of  a  scrape." 

Mrs.  Marshall  explained  further,  and  incidentally  touched 
upon  her  sister-in-law's  views  of  the  relation  between  ex- 
pensive boys'  schools  and  private  tutors.  Her  dryly  humor- 
ous version  of  this  set  her  husband  off  in  a  great  mirthful 
roar,  to  which  Sylvia,  after  a  moment  of  blankness,  suddenly 
joined  a  burst  of  her  own  clear  laughter.  At  the  time  she  had 
seen  nothing  funny  in  Aunt  Victoria's  statement,  but  she  was 
now  immensely  tickled  to  remember  Aunt  Victoria's  Olym- 
pian certainty  of  herself  and  her  mother's  grave  mask  of 
serious  consideration  of  the  idea.  Long  after  her  father  had 
stopped  laughing,  she  still  went  on,  breaking  out  into  de- 
lighted giggles.  Her  new  understanding  of  the  satire  back 
of  her  mother's  quiet  eyes,  lent  to  Aunt  Victoria's  golden 
calm  the  quaint  touch  of  caricature  which  made  it  self- 
deceived  complacency.  At  the  recollection  she  sent  up 
rocket  after  rocket  of  schoolgirl  laughter. 

Her  mother,  absorbed  in  conscientious  anxiety  about 
Sylvia's  development,  and  deeply  disappointed  by  the  result 
of  the  visit  to  the  hospital,  ignored  this  laughter,  nor  did 
Sylvia  at  all  guess  that  she  was  laughing  away  half  the 
spell  which  Aunt  Victoria  had  cast  about  her.    When  they 


140  The  Bent  Twig 

went  down  to  their  supper  of  watery  creamed  potatoes, 
and  stewed  apricots  in  thick  saucers,  she  was  in  such  good 
humor  that  she  ate  this  unappetizing  fare  with  no  protest. 

"  Now,  folks,"  said  Professor  Marshall,  after  supper, 
"  we  have  to  go  home  tomorrow  early,  so  we  ought  to  have 
one  more  fling  tonight.  While  I  was  waiting  for  you  to 
come  back  this  afternoon,  I  looked  up  what  Chicago  has  to 
offer  in  the  way  of  flings,  and  this  is  what  I  found.  Here, 
Barbara,"  he  took  a  tiny  envelope  out  of  his  upper  waist- 
coat pocket,  "  are  two  tickets  for  the  symphony  orchestra. 
By  the  greatest  of  luck  they're  giving  a  special  concert  for 
some  charity  or  other,  a  beautiful  program;  a  sort  of 
musical  requiem.  Sylvia  mustn't  miss  it;  you  take  her. 
And  here,"  he  spun  round  to  face  Judith  and  Lawrence, 
producing  another  slim,  tiny  envelope  from  the  other  upper 
waistcoat  pocket,  "  since  symphony  concerts  are  rather 
solid  meat  for  milk  teeth,  and  since  they  last  till  way  after 
bedtime,  I  have  provided  another  sort  of  entertainment; 
to  wit :  three  seats  for  moving  pictures  of  the  only  real  and 
authentic  Cheyenne  Bill's  Congress  of  the  World's  Fron- 
tiersmen.   All  in  favor  of  going  there  with  me,  say  '  Aye.' ,! 

"  Aye !  "  screamed  Judith  and  Lawrence.  Everybody 
laughed  in  pleased  excitement  and  everybody  seemed  sat- 
isfied except  Mrs.  Marshall,  who  insisted  that  she  should 
go  to  the  moving  pictures  while  the  Professor  took  Sylvia 
to  the  concert. 

Then  followed  the  most  amiable,  generous  wrangle  as  to 
which  of  the  parents  should  enjoy  the  adult  form  of  amuse- 
ment. But  while  the  Professor  grew  more  and  more  half- 
hearted in  his  protestations  that  he  really  didn't  care  where 
he  went,  Mrs.  Marshall  grew  more  and  more  positive  that 
he  must  not  be  allowed  to  miss  the  music,  finally  silencing 
his  last  weak  proffer  of  self-abnegation  by  saying  peremp- 
torily :  "  No,  no,  Elliott ;  go  on  in  to  your  debauch  of 
emotion.  I'll  take  the  children.  Don't  miss  your  chance. 
You  know  it  means  ten  times  as  much  to  you  as  to  me. 
You  haven't  heard  a  good  orchestra  in  years." 

Sylvia  had  never  been  in  such  a  huge  hall  as  the  one 


An  Instrument  in  Tune  141 

where  they  presently  sat,  high,  giddily  high  in  the  eyrie  of 
a  top  gallery.  They  looked  down  into  yawning  space.  The 
vast  size  of  the  auditorium  so  dwarfed  the  people  now  taking 
their  innumerable  seats,  that  even  after  the  immense  audi- 
ence was  assembled  the  great  semicircular  enclosure 
seemed  empty  and  blank.  It  received  those  thousands  of 
souls  into  its  maw,  and  made  no  sign ;  awaiting  some  visita- 
tion worthy  of  its  bulk. 

The  orchestra,  an  army  of  ants,  straggled  out  on  the  stage. 
Sylvia  was  astonished  at  their  numbers — sixteen  first 
violins,  she  saw  by  the  program!  She  commented  to  her 
father  on  the  difficulty  of  keeping  them  all  in  tune.  He 
smiled  at  her  absently,  bade  her,  with  an  air  of  suppressed 
excitement,  wait  until  she  had  heard  them,  and  fell  to  biting 
his  nails  nervously.  She  re-read  the  program  and  all  the 
advertisements,  hypnotized,  like  every  one  else  in  the  audi- 
ence, by  the  sight  of  printed  matter.  She  noticed  that  the 
first  number  of  this  memorial  concert  was  the  funeral  march 
from  the  Gotterdammerung,  which  she  knew  very  well 
from  having  heard  a  good  many  times  a  rather  thin  version 
of  it  for  four  strings  and  a  piano. 

The  conductor,  a  solitary  ant,  made  his  toilsome  way 
across  the  great  front  of  the  stage,  evoking  a  burst  of 
applause,  which  resounded  hollowly  in  the  inhuman  spaces 
of  the  building.  He  mounted  a  step,  waved  his  antennae, 
there  was  a  great  indrawn  breath  of  silence,  and  then  Sylvia, 
waiting  with  agreeable  curiosity  to  hear  how  a  big  orchestra 
would  really  sound,  gasped  and  held  her  breath.  The  cup 
of  that  vast  building  suddenly  brimmed  with  a  magical  flood 
of  pure  tone,  coming  from  everywhere,  from  nowhere,  from 
her  own  heart  as  well  as  from  outside  her  body.  The 
immense  hall  rang  to  the  glorious  quality  of  this  sound  as 
a  violin-back  vibrates  to  the  drawn  bow.  It  rained  down  on 
her,  it  surged  up  to  her,  she  could  not  believe  that  she 
really  heard  it. 

She  looked  quickly  at  her  father.  His  arms  were  folded 
tightly  across  his  chest.  He  was  looking  frowningly  at^ 
the  back  of  the  chair  in  front  of  him.    It  was  evident  that 


142  The  Bent  Twig 

Sylvia  did  not  exist  for  him.  She  was  detached  from  her 
wonder  at  his  pale  sternness  by  the  assault  on  her  nerves 
made  by  the  first  of  those  barbaric  outcries  of  woe,  that  sud- 
den, brief  clamor  of  grief,  the  shouts  of  despair,  the  beating 
upon  shields.  Her  heart  stood  still —  There  rose,  sing- 
ing like  an  archangel,  the  mystic  call  of  the  Volsung,  then 
the  yearning  melody  of  love;  such  glory,  such  longing  for 
beauty,  for  life — and  then  brusquely,  again  and  again,  the 
screaming,  sobbing  recollection  of  the  fact  of  death.  .  .  . 

When  it  was  over,  Sylvia's  breath  was  still  coming  pant- 

ingly.     "Oh,   Father!     How — how   wonderful — how " 

she  murmured. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  though  he  were  angry  with  her,  and 
yet  scarcely  seeming  to  know  her,  and  spoke  in  a  hard, 
bitter  tone:  "  And  it  is  years  since  I  have  heard  one!  "  He 
seemed  to  cry  out  upon  her  for  the  conditions  of  his  life. 

She  had  no  key  for  these  words,  could  not  imagine  a 
meaning  for  them,  and,  chilled  and  repelled,  wondered  if  she 
had  heard  him  rightly. 

The  funeral  march  from  the  Eroica  began,  and  her 
father's  face  softened.  The  swelling  volume  of  tone  rose 
like  a  flood-tide.  The  great  hall,  the  thousands  of  human 
hearts,  all  beat  solemnly  in  the  grave  and  hopeless  pulsa- 
tions of  the  measured  chords.  The  air  was  thick  with  sor- 
row, with  quiet  despair.  No  outcries  here,  no  screams — 
the  modern  soul  advancing  somberly  with  a  pale  composure 
to  the  grave  of  its  love,  aware  that  during  all  the  centuries 
since  the  dead  Siegfried  was  lifted  high  on  the  shoulders  of 
his  warriors  not  a  word  of  explanation,  of  consolation  has 
been  found;  that  the  modern,  barren  self-control  means 
only  what  the  barbarian  yells  out  in  his  open  abandonment 
to  sorrow — and  yet  such  beauty,  such  beauty  in  that  sing- 
ing thread  of  melody — "  durch  Leiden,  Freude!" 

Not  even  the  shadow  of  death  had  ever  fallen  across 
Sylvia's  life,  or  that  of  her  father,  to  explain  the  premoni- 
tory emotion  which  now  drew  them  together  like  two  fright- 
ened children.  Sylvia  felt  the  inexorable  music  beating  in 
her  own  veins,  and  when  she  took  her  father's  hand  it 


An  Instrument  in  Tune  143 

seemed  to  her  that  its  strong  pulses  throbbed  to  the  same 
rhythm;  beauty,  and  despair  .  .  .  hope  .  .  .  life  .  .  .  death. 
At  the  end,  "  Oh,  Father — oh,  Father !  "  she  said  under 
her  breath,  imploringly,  struggling  to  free  herself  from 
the  muffling,  enveloping  sense  of  imminent  disaster.  He 
pressed  her  hand  hard  and  smiled  at  her.  It  was  his 
own  old  smile,  the  father-look  which  had  been  her  heart's 
home  all  her  life — but  it  was  infinitely  sweeter  to  her  now 
than  ever  before.  She  had  never  felt  closer  to  him. 
There  was  a  pause  during  which  they  did  not  speak,  and 
then  there  burst  upon  them  the  splendid  tumult  of  "  Death 
and  Transfiguration,"  which,  like  a  great  wind,  swept  Sylvia 
out  of  herself.  She  could  not  follow  the  music — she  had 
never  heard  of  it  before.  She  was  beaten  down,  over- 
whelmed, freed,  as  though  the  transfiguration  were  her 
own,  from  the  pitiful  barriers  of  consciousness.  .  .  . 

"  Was  ihe  concert  good  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Marshall,  yawning, 
and  reaching  out  of  bed  to  kiss  Sylvia  sleepily.  She 
laughed  a  little  at  their  faces.  "  Oh,  music  is  a  madness ! 
To  spend  a  cheerful  evening  listening  to  death-music,  and 
then  come  back  looking  like  Moses  before  the  Burning 
Bush!" 

"  Say,  you  ought  to  have  seen  the  stunt  they  did  with 
their  lassos,"  cried  Judith,  waking  in  the  bed  on  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  and  sitting  up  with  her  black  hair  tousled 
about  her  face.  "  I'm  going  to  try  it  with  the  pinto  when 
we  get  home." 

"I  bet  you'll  do  it,  too,"  came  from  Lawrence  the  loyal, 
always  sure  of  Judith's  strength,  Judith's  skill. 

Sylvia  looked  at  her  father  over  their  heads  and  smiled 
faintly.    It  was  a  good  smile,  from  a  full  heart. 

"  Aunt  Victoria  sent  our  dresses,"  said  Judith,  dropping 
back  on  the  pillow.  "  That  big  box  over  there.  Mine  has 
pink  ribbons,  and  yours  are  blue." 

Mrs.  Marshall  looked  at  the  big  box  with  disfavor,  and 
then  at  Sylvia,  now  sunk  in  a  chair,  her  hands  clasped  be- 
hind her  head,  her  eyes  dreamy  and  half  closed. 


144  The  Bent  Twig 

Across  the  room  the  long  pasteboard  box  displayed  a 
frothy  mass  of  white  lace  and  pale  shining  ribbons.  Sylvia 
looked  at  it  absently  and  made  no  move  to  examine  it. 
She  closed  her  eyes  again  and  beat  an  inaudible  rhythm  with 
her  raised  fingers.  All  through  her  was  ringing  the  upward- 
surging  tide  of  sound  at  the  end  of  "  Death  and  Transfigura- 
tion." 

"  Oh,  go  to  bed,  Sylvia ;  don't  sit  there  maundering  over 
the  concert,"  said  her  mother,  with  a  good-natured  asperity. 
But  there  was  relief  in  her  voice. 


CHAPTER  XIVI 
HIGHER  EDUCATION 

To  any  one  who  is  familiar  with  State  University  life,  the 
color  of  Sylvia's  Freshman  year  will  be  vividly  conveyed 
by  the  simple  statement  that  she  was  not  invited  to  join  a 
fraternity.  To  any  one  who  does  not  know  State  Uni- 
versity life,  no  description  can  convey  anything  approaching 
an  adequate  notion  of  the  terribly  determinative  significance 
of  that  fact. 

The  statement  that  she  was  invited  to  join  no  sorority 
is  not  literally  true,  for  in  the  second  semester  when  it  was 
apparent  that  none  of  the  three  leading  fraternities  in- 
tended to  take  her  in,  there  came  a  late  "  bid  "  from  one  of 
the  third-rate  sororities,  of  recent  date,  composed  of  girls 
like  Sylvia  who  had  not  been  included  in  the  membership 
of  the  older,  socially  distinguished  organizations.  Cut  to 
the  quick  by  her  exclusion  from  the  others,  Sylvia  refused 
this  tardy  invitation  with  remorseless  ingratitude.  If  she 
were  not  to  form  one  of  the  "  swell "  set  of  college,  at  least 
she  would  not  proclaim  herself  one  of  the  "  jays,"  the 
"grinds,"  the  queer  girls,  who  wore  their  hair  straight 
back  from  their  foreheads,  who  invariably  carried  off  Phi 
Beta  Kappa,  whose  skirts  hung  badly,  whose  shoe-heels 
•turned  over  as  they  walked,  who  stood  first  in  their  classes, 
whose  belts  behind  made  a  practice  of  revealing  large  white 
safety-pins;  and  whose  hats,  even  disassociated  from  their 
dowdy  wearers,  and  hanging  in  the  cloakroom,  were  of  an 
almost  British  eccentricity. 

Nothing  of  this  sort  could  be  alleged  against  Sylvia's 
appearance,  which  she  felt,  as  she  arrayed  herself  every 
morning,  to  be  all  that  the  most  swagger  frat  could  ask  of  a 
member.    Aunt  Victoria's  boxes  of  clothing,  her  own  nimble 

145 


146  The  Bent  Twig 

fingers  and  passionate  attention  to  the  subject,  combined  te 
turn  her  out  a  copy,  not  to  be  distinguished  from  the  origi- 
nal, of  the  daughter  of  a  man  with  an  income  five  times 
that  of  her  father.  As  she  consulted  her  mirror,  it  occurred 
to  her  also,  as  but  an  honest  recognition  of  a  conspicuous 
fact,  that  her  suitable  and  harmonious  toilets  adorned  a  per- 
son as  pleasing  to  the  eye  as  any  of  her  classmates. 

During  the  last  year  of  her  life  at  home  she  had  shot  up 
very  fast,  and  she  was  now  a  tall,  slender  presence,  pre- 
served from  even  the  usual  touching  and  delightful  awk- 
wardness of  seventeen  by  the  trained  dexterity  and  strength 
with  which  she  handled  her  body,  as  muscular,  for  all  its 
rounded  slimness,  as  a  boy's.  Her  hair  was  beautiful,  a 
bright  chestnut  brown  with  a  good  deal  of  red,  its  brilliant 
gloss  broken  into  innumerable  high-lights  by  the  ripple  of 
its  waviness;  and  she  had  one  other  positive  beauty,  the 
clearly  penciled  line  of  her  long,  dark  eyebrows,  which  ran 
up  a  trifle  at  the  outer  ends  with  a  little  quirk,  giving  an 
indescribable  air  of  alertness  and  vivacity  to  her  expression. 
Otherwise  she  was  not  at  that  age,  nor  did  she  ever  become, 
so  explicitly  handsome  as  her  sister  Judith,  who  had  at 
every  period  of  her  life  a  head  as  beautiful  as  that  on  a 
Greek  coin.  But  when  the  two  were  together,  although  the 
perfectly  adjusted  proportions  of  Judith's  proud,  dark  face 
brought  out  the  irregularities  of  Sylvia's,  disclosed  the  tilt 
of  her  small  nose,  made  more  apparent  the  disproportionate 
width  between  her  eyes,  and  showed  her  chin  to  be  of  no 
mold  in  particular,  yet  a  modern  eye  rested  with  far  more 
pleasure  on  the  older  sister's  face.  A  bright,  quivering 
mobility  like  sunshine  on  water,  gave  it  a  charm  which  was 
not  dependent  on  the  more  obvious  prettinesses  of  a  fine- 
grained, white  skin,  extremely  clear  brown  eyes,  and  a 
mouth  quick  to  laugh  and  quiver,  with  pure,  sharply  cut  out- 
line and  deeply  sunk  corners.  Even  in  repose,  Sylvia's  face 
made  Judith's  seem  unresponsive,  and  when  it  lighted  up  in 
talk  and  laughter,  it  seemed  to  give  out  a  visible  light.  In 
contrast  Judith's  beautiful  countenance  seemed  carved  out 
of  some  very  hard  and  indestructible  stone. 


Higher  Education  147 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  this  undeniably  satisfactory  physical 
outfit,  and  pre-eminent  ability  in  athletics,  Sylvia  was  not 
invited  to  join  any  of  the  best  fraternities.  It  is  not  sur- 
prising that  there  was  mingled  with  her  bitterness  on  the 
subject  a  justifiable  amount  of  bewilderment.  What  did 
they  want?  They  recruited,  from  her  very  side  in  classes, 
girls  without  half  her  looks  or  cleverness.  What  was  the 
matter  with  her?  She  would  not  for  her  life  have  given  a 
sign  to  her  family  of  her  mental  sufferings  as,  during  that 
first  autumn,  day  after  day  went  by  with  no  sign  of  welcome 
from  the  social  leaders  of  her  new  world;  but  a  mark  was 
left  on  her  character  by  her  affronted  recognition  of  her 
total  lack  of  success  in  this,  her  first  appearance  outside  the 
sheltering  walls  of  her  home;  her  first  trial  by  the  real 
standards  of  the  actual  world  of  real  people. 

The  fact,  which  would  have  been  balm  to  Sylvia's  vanity, 
had  she  ever  had  the  least  knowledge  of  it,  was  that  upon  her 
appearance  in  the  Freshman  class  she  had  been  the  occasion 
of  violent  discussion  and  almost  of  dissension  in  the  councils 
of  the  two  "  best "  fraternities.  Her  beauty,  her  charm, 
and  the  rumors  of  her  excellence  in  tennis  had  made  a  flutter 
in  the  first  fraternity  meetings  after  the  opening  of  the 
autumn  term.  The  younger  members  of  both  Sigma  Beta 
and  Alpha  Kappa  counseled  early  and  enthusiastic  "  rush- 
ing "  of  the  new  prize,  but  the  Juniors  and  Seniors,  wise  in 
their  day  and  generation,  brought  out  a  number  of  damning 
facts  which  would  need  to  be  taken  into  consideration  if 
Sylvia  wore  their  pin. 

There  were,  in  both  fraternities,  daughters  of  other 
faculty  families,  who  were  naturally  called  upon  to  furnish 
inside  information.  They  had  been  brought  up  from  child- 
hood on  the  tradition  of  the  Marshalls'  hopeless  queerness, 
and  their  collective  statement  of  the  Marshalls'  position  ran 
somewhat  as  follows :  "  The  only  professors  who  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  them  are  some  of  the  jay  young  profs  from 
the  West,  with  no  families;  the  funny  old  La  Rues — you 
know  what  a  hopeless  dowd  Madame  La  Rue  is — and  Pro- 
fessor Kennedy,  and  though  he  comes  from  a  swell  family 


148  The  Bent  Twig 

he's  an  awful  freak  himself.  They  live  on  a  farm,  like 
farmers,  at  the  ends  of  the  earth  from  anybody  that  any- 
body knows.  They  are  never  asked  to  be  patrons  of  any 
swell  college  functions.  None  of  the  faculty  ladies  with 
any  social  position  ever  call  on  Mrs.  Marshall — and  no 
wonder.  She  doesn't  keep  any  help,  and  when  the  doorbell 
rings  she's  as  apt  to  come  running  in  from  the  chicken 
housevwith  rubber  boots  on,  and  a  basket  of  eggs — and  the 
queerest  clothes !  Like  a  costume  out  of  a  book ;  and  they 
never  have  anybody  to  wait  on  the  table,  just  jump  up  and 
down  themselves — you  can  imagine  what  kind  of  a  frat 
tea  or  banquet  Sylvia  would  give  in  such  a  home — and  of 
course  if  we  took  her  in,  we  couldn't  very  well  tell  her  her 
family's  so  impossible  we  wouldn't  want  their  connection 
with  the  frat  known — and  the  students  who  go  there  are  a 
perfect  collection  of  all  the  jays  and  grinds  and  freaks  in 
college.  It's  enough  to  mark  you  one  to  be  seen  there — 
you  meet  all  the  crazy  guys  you  see  in  classes  and  never 
anywhere  else — and  of  course  that  wouldn't  stop  when 
Sylvia's  frat  sisters  began  going  there.  And  their  house 
wouldn't  do  at  all  to  entertain  in — it's  queer — no  rugs — 
dingy  old  furniture — nothing  but  books  everywhere,  even  in 
their  substitute  for  a  parlor — and  you're  likely  to  meet  not 
only  college  freaks,  but  worse  ones  from  goodness  knows 
where.  There's  a  beer-drinking  old  monster  who  goes  there 
every  Sunday  to  play  the  fiddle  that  you  wouldn't  have 
speak  to  you  on  the  street  for  anything  in  the  world.  And 
the  way  they  entertain!  My,  in  such  a  countrified  way! 
Some  of  the  company  go  out  into  the  kitchen  to  help  Mrs. 
Marshall  serve  up  the  refreshments— and  everything  home- 
made— and  they  play  charades,  and  nobody  knows  what  else 

— bean-bag,  or  spelling-down  maybe " 

This  appalling  picture,  which  in  justice  to  the  young 
delineators  must  be  conceded  to  be  not  in  the  least  over- 
drawn, was  quite  enough  to  give  pause  to  those  impetuous 
and  immature  young  Sophomores  who  had  lacked  the  philo- 
sophical breadth  of  vision  to  see  that  Sylvia  was  not  an 
isolated  phenomenon,  but   (since  her  family  lived  in  La 


Higher  Education  149 

Chance)  an  inseparable  part  of  her  background.  After  all, 
the  sororities  made  no  claim  to  be  anything  but  social  or- 
ganizations. Their  standing  in  the  college  world  depended 
upon  their  social  background,  and  of  course  this  could  only 
be  made  up  of  a  composite  mingling  of  those  of  their  in- 
dividual members. 

Fraternities  did  not  wish  to  number  more  than  sixteen  or 
eighteen  undergraduates.  That  meant  only  four  or  five  to 
be  chosen  from  each  Freshman  class,  and  that  number  of 
"  nice  "  girls  was  not  hard  to  find,  girls  who  were  not  only 
well  dressed,  and  lively  and  agreeable  in  themselves,  but 
who  came  from  large,  well-kept,  well-furnished  houses  on 
the  right  streets  of  La  Chance ;  with  presentable,  card-play- 
ing, call-paying,  reception-giving  mothers,  who  hired 
caterers  for  their  entertainments;  and  respectably  absentee 
fathers  with  sizable  pocketbooks  and  a  habit  of  cash  lib- 
erality. The  social  standing  of  the  co-eds  in  State  Uni- 
versities was  already  precarious  enough,  without  running 
the  risk  of  acquiring  dubious  social  connections. 

If  Sylvia  had  been  a  boy,  it  is  almost  certain  that  the 
deficiencies  of  her  family  would  have  been  overlooked  in 
consideration  of  her  potentialities  in  the  athletic  world. 
Success  in  athletics  was  to  the  men's  fraternities  what  social 
standing  was  to  the  girls'.  It  must  be  remarked  parentheti- 
cally that  neither  class  of  these  organizations  had  the  slight- 
est prejudice  against  high  scholastic  standing.  On  the  con- 
trary it  was  regarded  very  kindly  by  fraternity  members,  as 
a  desirable  though  not  indispensable  addition  to  social  stand- 
ing and  physical  prowess. 

But  Sylvia  was  not  a  boy,  and  her  fine,  promising  game 
of  tennis,  her  excellence  in  the  swimming-pool,  and  her 
success  on  the  gymnasium  floor  and  on  the  flying  rings, 
served  no  purpose  but  to  bring  to  her  the  admiration  of  the 
duffers  among  the  girls,  whom  she  despised,  and  the  un- 
spoken envy  of  the  fraternity  girls,  whose  overtures  at 
superficial  friendliness  she  constantly  rebuffed  with  stern, 
wounded  pride. 

The  sharpest  stab  to  her  pride  came  from  the  inevitable 


150  The  Bent  Twig 

publicity  of  her  ordeal.  For,  though  her  family  knew  noth- 
ing of  what  that  first  year  out  in  the  world  meant  to  her,, 
she  had  not  the  consolation  of  hoping  that  her  condition  was 
not  perfectly  apparent  to  every  one  else  in  the  college  world. 
At  the  first  of  the  year,  all  gatherings  of  undergraduates  not 
in  fraternities  hummed  and  buzzed  with  speculations  about 
who  would  or  would  not  be  "  taken  "  by  the  leading  fra- 
ternities. For  every  girl  who  was  at  all  possible,  each  day 
was  a  long  suspense,  beginning  in  hope  and  ending  in  list- 
lessness ;  and  for  Sylvia  in  an  added  shrinking  from  the 
eyes  of  her  mates,  which  were,  she  knew,  fixed  on  her  with  a 
relentless  curiosity  which  was  torture  to  one  of  her  tem- 
perament. She  had  been  considered  almost  sure  to  be  early 
invited  to  join  Alpha  Kappa,  the  frat  to  which  most  of  the 
faculty  daughters  belonged,  and  all  during  the  autumn  she 
was  aware  that  when  she  took  off  her  jacket  in  the  cloak- 
room, a  hundred  glances  swept  her  to  see  if  she  wore  at 
last  the  coveted  emblem  of  the  "  pledged  "  girl ;  and  when 
an  Alpha  Kappa  girl  chanced  to  come  near  her  with  a 
casual  remark,  she  seemed  to  hear  a  significant  hush  among 
the  other  girls,  followed  by  an  equally  significant  buzz  of 
whispered  comment  when  the  fraternity  member  moved 
away  again.  This  atmosphere  would  have  made  no  impres- 
sion on  a  nature  either  more  sturdily  philosophic,  or  more 
unimaginative  than  Sylvia's  (Judith,  for  instance,  was  not 
in  the  least  affected  by  the  experience),  but  it  came  to  be 
a  morbid  obsession  of  this  strong,  healthy,  active-minded 
young  creature.  It  tinged  with  bitterness  and  blackness 
what  should  have  been  the  crystal-clear  cup  holding  her 
youth  and  intelligence  and  health.  She  fancied  that  every 
one  despised  her.  She  imagined  that  people  who  were  in 
reality  quite  unaware  of  her  existence  were  looking  at  her 
and  whispering  together  a  wondering  discussion  as  to  why 
she  was  not  "  in  the  swim  "  as  such  a  girl  ought  to  be — all 
girls  worth  their  salt  were. 

Above  all  she  was  stung  into  a  sort  of  speechless  rage  by 
her  impotence  to  do  anything  to  regain  the  decent  minimum 
of  personal  dignity  which  she  felt  was  stripped  from  her  by 


Higher  Education  151 

this  constant  play  of  bald  speculation  about  whether  she 
would  or  would  not  be  considered  "  good  enough  ?'  to  be  in- 
vited into  a  sorority.  If  only  something  definite  would 
happen !  If  there  were  only  an  occasion  on  which  she  might 
in  some  way  proudly  proclaim  her  utter  indifference  to  fra- 
ternities and  their  actions!  If  only  the  miserable  business 
were  not  so  endlessly  drawn  out!  She  threw  herself  with 
a  passionate  absorption  into  her  studies,  her  music,  and  her 
gymnasium  work,  cut  off  both  from  the  "elect"  and  from  the 
multitude,  a  proudly  self-acknowledged  maverick.  She 
never  lacked  admiring  followers  among  less  brilliant  girls 
who  would  have  been  adorers  if  she  had  not  held  them  off 
at  arm's  length,  but  her  vanity,  far  from  being  omnivorous, 
required  more  delicate  food.  She  wished  to  be  able  to  cry 
aloud  to  her  world  that  she  thought  nothing  and  cared  noth- 
ing about  fraternities,  and  by  incessant  inner  absorption  in 
this  conception  she  did  to  a  considerable  extent  impose  it 
upon  the  collective  mind  of  her  contemporaries.  She,  the 
yearningly  friendly,  sympathetic,  sensitive,  praise-craving 
Sylvia,  came  to  be  known,  half  respected  and  half  disliked, 
as  proud  and  clever,  and  -;  high-brow,"  and  offish,  and  con- 
ceited, and  so  "  queer  "  that  she  cared  nothing  for  the  ordi- 
nary pleasures  of  ordinary  girls. 

This  reputation  for  a  high-browed  indifference  to  com- 
monplace mortals  was  naturally  not  a  recommendation  to 
the  masculine  undergraduates  of  the  University.  These 
young  men,  under  the  influence  of  reports  of  what  was 
done  at  Cornell  and  other  more  eastern  co-educational  in- 
stitutions, were  already  strongly  inclined  to  ignore  the 
co-eds  as  much  as  possible.  The  tradition  was  growing 
rapidly  that  the  proper  thing  was  to  invite  the  "  town- 
girls  "  to  the  college  proms  and  dances,  and  to  sit  beside 
them  in  the  grandstand  during  football  games.  As  yet, 
however,  this  tendency  had  not  gone  so  far  but  that  those 
co-eds  who  were  members  of  a  socially  recognized  fraternity 
were  automatically  saved  from  the  neglect  which  enveloped 
all  other  but  exceptionally  flirtatious  and  undiscriminating 
girls.     Each  girls'  fraternity,  like  the  masculine  organiza- 


1^2  The  Bent  Twig 

tions,  gave  one  big  hop  in  the  course  of  the  season  and 
several  smaller  dances,  as  well  as  lawn-parties  and  teas 
and  stage-coach  parties  to  the  football  games.  The  young 
men  naturally  wished  to  be  invited  to  these  functions,  the 
increasing  elaborateness  of  which  kept  pace  with  the  in- 
creasing sophistication  of  life  in  La  Chance  and  the  increas- 
ing cost  of  which  made  the  parents  of  the  girls  groan.  Con- 
sequently each  masculine  fraternity  took  care  that  it  did  not 
incur  the  enmity  of  the  organized  and  socially  powerful 
sororities.  But  Sylvia  was  not  protected  by  this  aegis.  She 
was  not  invited  during  her  Freshman  year  to  the  dances 
given  by  either  the  sororities  or  the  fraternities;  and  the 
large  scattering  crowd  of  masculine  undergraduates  were 
frightened  away  from  the  handsome  girl  by  her  supposed 
haughty  intellectual  tastes. 

Here  again  her  isolation  was  partly  the  result  of  her  own 
wish.  The  raw-boned,  badly  dressed  farmers'  lads,  with 
red  hands  and  rough  hair,  she  quite  as  snobbishly  ignored 
as  she  was  ignored  in  her  turn  by  the  well-set-up,  fashion- 
ably dressed  young  swells  of  the  University,  with  their 
white  hands,  with  their  thin,  gaudy  socks  tautly  pulled  over 
their  ankle-bones,  and  their  shining  hair  glistening  like 
lacquer  on  their  skulls  (that  being  the  desideratum  in  youth- 
ful masculine  society  of  the  place  and  time) .  Sylvia  snubbed 
the  masculine  jays  of  college  partly  because  it  was  a  breath 
of  life  to  her  battered  vanity  to  be  able  to  snub  some  one, 
and  partly  because  they  seemed  to  her,  in  comparison  with 
the  smart  set,  seen  from  afar,  quite  and  utterly  undesirable. 
She  would  rather  have  no  masculine  attentions  at  all  than 
such  poor  provender  for  her  feminine  desire  to  conquer. 

Thus  she  trod  the  leafy  walks  of  the  beautiful  campus 
alone,  ignoring  and  ignored,  keenly  alive  under  her  shell  of 
indifference  to  the  brilliant  young  men  and  their  chosen  few 
feminine  companions. 


CHAPTER  XV 
MRS.  DRAPER  BLOWS  THE  COALS 

The  most  brilliant  of  these  couples  were  Jermain  Fiske, 
Jr.,  and  Eleanor  Hubert.  The  first  was  the  son  of  the  well- 
known  and  distinguished  Colonel  Jermain  Fiske,  one  of  the 
trustees  of  the  University,  ex-Senator  from  the  State.  He 
belonged  to  the  old,  free-handed,  speech-making  type  of 
American  statesmen,  and,  with  his  florid  good  looks,  his 
great  stature,  his  loud,  resonant,  challenging  voice,  and  his 
picturesque  reputation  for  highly  successful  double-dealing, 
he  was  one  of  the  most  talked-of  men  in  the  State,  despite 
his  advanced  years.  His  enemies,  who  were  not  few,  said 
that  the  shrewdest  action  of  his  surpassingly  shrewd  life 
had  been  his  voluntary  retirement  from  the  Senate  and 
from  political  activities  at  the  first  low  murmur  heralding  the 
muck-raking  cyclone  which  was  to  devastate  public  life  as 
men  of  his  type  understood  it.  But  every  inhabitant  of  the 
State,  including  his  enemies,  took  an  odd  pride  in  his 
fiercely  debonair  defiance  to  old  age,  in  his  grandiloquent, 
too  fluent  public  addresses,  and  in  the  manner  in  which, 
despite  his  dubious  private  reputation,  he  held  open  to  him, 
by  sheer  will-power,  sanctimonious  doors  which  were  closed 
to  other  less  robust  bad  examples  to  youth. 

This  typical  specimen  of  an  American  class  now  passing 
away,  had  sent  his  son  to  the  State  University  instead  of  to 
an  expensive  Eastern  college  because  of  his  carefully 
avowed  attitude  of  bluff  acceptance  of  a  place  among  the 
plain  people  of  the  region.  The  presence  of  Jermain,  Jr., 
in  the  classrooms  of  the  State  University  had  been  capital 
for  many  a  swelling  phrase  on  his  father's  part — "  What's 
good  enough  for  the  farmers'  boys  of  my  State  is  good 
enough  for  my  boy,"  etc.,  etc. 

As  far  as  the  young  man  in  question  was  concerned,  he 

153 


1 54  The  Bent  Twig 

certainly  showed  no  signs  whatever  of  feeling  himself  sacri- 
ficed for  his  father's  advantage,  and  apparently  considered 
that  a  leisurely  sojourn  for  seven  years  (he  took  both  the 
B.A.  and  the  three-year  Law  course)  in  a  city  the  size  of 
La  Chance  was  by  no  means  a  hardship  for  a  young  man 
in  the  best  of  health,  provided  with  ample  funds,  and  never 
questioned  as  to  the  disposition  of  his  time.  He  had  had 
at  first  a  reputation  for  dissipation  which,  together  with  his 
prowess  on  the  football  field,  had  made  him  as  much  talked 
of  on  the  campus  as  his  father  in  the  State ;  but  during  his 
later  years,  those  spent  in  the  Law  School,  he  had,  as  the 
college  phrase  ran,  "  taken  it  out  in  being  swagger/'  had 
discarded  his  former  shady  associates,  had  two  rooms  in 
the  finest  frat  house  on  the  campus,  and  was  the  only 
student  of  the  University  to  drive  two  horses  tandem  to  a 
high,  red-wheeled  dog-cart.  His  fine  physique  and  reputa- 
tion for  quick  assertion  of  his  rights  saved  him  from  the 
occasional  taunt  of  dandyism  which  would  have  been  flung 
at  any  other  student  indulging  in  so  unusual  a  freak  of 
fashion. 

During  Sylvia's  Freshman  year  there  usually  sat  beside 
him,  on  the  lofty  seat  of  this  equipage,  a  sweet-faced,  gentle- 
browed  young  lady,  the  lovely  flower  blooming  out  of  the 
little  girl  who  had  so  innocently  asked  her  mother  some  ten 
years  ago  what  was  a  drunken  reinhardt.  The  oldest 
daughter  of  the  professor  of  European  History  was  almost 
precisely  Sylvia's  age,  but  now,  when  Sylvia  was  laboring 
over  her  books  in  the  very  beginning  of  her  college  life, 
Eleanor  Hubert  was  a  finished  product,  a  graduate  of  an 
exclusive,  expensive  girls'  boarding-school  in  New  York, 
and  a  that-year's  debutante  in  La  Chance  society.  Her 
name  was  constantly  in  the  items  of  the  society  columns,  she 
wore  the  most  profusely  varied  costumes,  and  she  drove 
about  the  campus  swaying  like  a  lily  beside  the  wealthiest 
undergraduate.  Sylvia's  mind  was  naturally  too  alert  an<# 
vigorous,  and  now  too  thoroughly  awakened  to  intellectual 
interests,  not  to  seize  with  interest  on  the  subjects  she 
studied  that  year ;  but  enjoy  as  much  as  she  tried  to  do,  and 


Mrs.  Draper  Blows  the  Coals  155 

did,  this  tonic  mental  discipline,  there  were  many  moments 
when  the  sight  of  Eleanor  Hubert  made  her  wonder  if  after 
all  higher  mathematics  and  history  were  of  any  real  value. 

During  this  wretched  year  of  stifled  unhappiness,  she  not 
only  studied  with  extreme  concentration,  but,  with  a  healthy 
instinct,  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  the  gymnasium.  It 
was  a  delight  to  her  to  be  able  to  swim  in  the  winter-time, 
she  organized  the  first  water-polo  team  among  the  co-eds, 
and  she  began  to  learn  fencing  from  the  Commandant  of  the 
University  Battalion.  He  had  been  a  crack  with  the  foils 
at  West  Point,  and  never  ceased  trying  to  arouse  an  interest 
in  what  seemed  to  him  the  only  rational  form  of  exercise ; 
but  fencing  at  that  time  had  no  intercollegiate  vogue,  and 
of  all  the  young  men  and  women  at  the  State  University, 
Sylvia  alone  took  up  his  standing  offer  of  free  instruction 
to  any  one  who  cared  to  give  the  time  to  learn;  and  even 
Sylvia  took  up  fencing  primarily  because  it  promised  to 
give  her  one  more  occupation,  left  her  less  time  for  loneli- 
ness. As  it  turned  out,  however,  these  lessons  proved  faf 
more  to  her  than  a  temporary  anodyne :  they  brought  her 
a  positive  pleasure.  She  delighted  the  dumpy  little  captain 
with  her  aptness,  and  he  took  the  greatest  pains  in  his  in- 
struction. Before  the  end  of  her  Freshman  year  she  twice 
succeeded  in  getting  through  his  guard  and  landing  a  thrust 
on  his  well-rounded  figure;  and  though  to  keep  down  her 
conceit  he  told  her  that  he  must  be  losing,  along  with  his 
slenderness,  some  of  his  youthful  agility,  he  confessed  to  his 
wife  that  teaching  Miss  Marshall  was  the  best  fun  he  had 
had  in  years.  The  girl  was  as  quick  as  a  cat,  and  had  a 
natural-born  fencer's  wrist. 

During  the  summer  vacation  she  kept  up  her  practice 
with  her  father,  who  remembered  enough  of  his  early  train- 
ing in  Paris  to  be  more  than  a  match  for  her,  and  in  the 
autumn  of  her  Sophomore  year,  at  the  annual  Gymnasium 
exhibition,  she  gave  with  the  Commandant  a  public  bout 
with  the  foils  in  which  she  notably  distinguished  herself. 
The  astonished  and  long-continued  applause  for  this  new 
feature  of  the  exhibition  was  a  draught  of  nectar  to  her 


156  The  Bent  Twig 

embittered  young  heart,  but  she  acknowledged  it  with  not 
the  smallest  sign  of  pleasure,  showing  an  impassive  face  as 
she  stood  by  the  portly  captain,  slim  and  tall  and  young 
and  haughty,  joining  him  in  a  sweeping,  ceremonious  salute 
with  her  foil  to  the  enthusiastic  audience,  and  turning  on  her 
heel  with  a  brusqueness  as  military  as  his  own,  to  march 
firmly  with  high-held  head  beside  him  back  to  the  ranks  of 
blue-bloomered  girls  who  stood  watching  her. 

The  younger  girls  in  Alpha  Kappa  and  Sigma  Beta  were 
seizing  this  opportunity  to  renew  an  old  quarrel  with  their 
elders  in  the  fraternities  and  were  acrimoniously  hoping  that 
the  older  ones  were  quite  satisfied  with  their  loss  of  a  bril- 
liant member.  These  accusations  met  with  no  ready  answer 
from  the  somewhat  crestfallen  elders,  whose  only  defense 
was  the  entire  unexpectedness  of  the  way  in  which  Sylvia 
was  distinguishing  herself.  Who  ever  heard  before  of  a 
girl  doing  anything  remarkable  in  athletics?  And  anyhow, 
now  in  her  Sophomore  year  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything. 
A  girl  so  notoriously  proud  would  certainly  not  consider  a 
tardy  invitation,  and  it  would  not  do  to  run  the  risk  of 
being  refused.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  to  have 
overheard  a  conversation  like  this  would  have  changed  the 
course  of  Sylvia's  development,  but  of  such  colloquies  she 
could  know  nothing,  attributing  to  the  fraternities,  with  all 
an  outsider's  resentful  overestimation  of  their  importance, 
an  arrogant  solidarity  of  opinion  and  firmness  of  purpose 
which  they  were  very  far  from  possessing. 

Professor  and  Mrs.  Marshall  and  Lawrence  and  Judith, 
up  in  the  front  row  of  chairs  set  for  the  audience  about  the 
running  track,  followed  this  exploit  of  Sylvia's  with  naively 
open  pride  and  sympathy,  applauding  even  more  heartily 
than  did  their  neighbors.  Lawrence,  as  usual,  began  to 
compose  a  poem,  the  first  line  of  which  ran, 

"  Splendid,  she  wields  her  gleaming  sword — — " 

The  most  immediate  result  of  this  first  public  success  of 
Sylvia's  was  the  call  paid  to  Mrs.  Marshall  on  the  day 


Mrs.  Draper  Blows  the  Coals  157 

following  by  Mrs.  Draper,  the  wife  of  the  professor  o£ 
Greek.  Although  there  had  never  been  any  formal  social 
intercourse  between  the  two  ladies,  they  had  for  a  good 
many  years  met  each  other  casually  on  the  campus,  and 
Mrs.  Draper,  with  the  extremely  graceful  manner  of  assur- 
ance which  was  her  especial  accomplishment,  made  it  seem 
quite  natural  that  she  should  call  to  congratulate  Sylvia's 
mother  on  the  girl's  skill  and  beauty  as  shown  in  her  prowess 
on  the  evening  before.  Mrs.  Marshall  prided  herself  on 
her  undeceived  view  of  life,  but  she  was  as  ready  to  hear 
praise  of  her  spirited  and  talented  daughter  as  any  other 
mother,  and  quite  melted  to  Mrs.  Draper,  although  her 
observations  from  afar  of  the  other  woman's  career  in  La 
Chance  had  never  before  inclined  her  to  tolerance.  So  that 
when  Mrs.  Draper  rose  to  go  and  asked  casually  if  Sylvia 
couldn't  run  in  at  five  that  afternoon  to  have  a  cup  of  tea 
at  her  house  with  a  very  few  of  her  favorites  among  the 
young  people,  Mrs.  Marshall,  rather  inflexible  by  nature 
and  quite  unused  to  the  subtleties  of  social  intercourse, 
found  herself  unable  to  retreat  quickly  enough  from  her  re- 
flected tone  of  cordiality  to  refuse  the  invitation  for  her 
daughter. 

When  Sylvia  came  back  to  lunch  she  was  vastly  flut- 
tered and  pleased  by  the  invitation,  and  as  she  ate,  her 
mind  leaped  from  one  possible  sartorial  combination  to 
another.  Whatever  she  wore  must  be  exactly  right  to  be 
worthy  of  such  a  hostess:  for  Mrs.  Draper  was  a  con- 
spicuous figure  in  faculty  society.  She  had  acquired, 
through  years  of  extremely  intelligent  maneuvering,  a  repu- 
tation for  choice  exclusiveness  which  was  accepted  even  in 
the  most  venerable  of  the  old  families  of  La  Chance,  those 
whose  founders  had  built  their  log  huts  there  as  long  as  fifty 
years  before.  In  faculty  circles  she  occupied  a  unique  posi- 
tion, envied  and  feared  and  admired  and  distrusted  and 
copiously  gossiped  about  by  the  faculty  ladies,  who  accepted 
with  eagerness  any  invitations  to  entertainments  in  her 
small,  aesthetic,  and  perfectly  appointed  house.  She  was 
envied  even  by  women  with  much  more  than  her  income : — 


158  The  Bent  Twig 

for  of  course  Professor  Draper  had  an  independent  in- 
come; it  was  hardly  possible  to  be  anybody  unless  one  be- 
longed to  that  minority  of  the  faculty  families  with  re- 
sources beyond  the  salary  granted  by  the  State. 

Faculty  ladies  were,  however,  not  favored  with  a  great 
number  of  invitations  to  Mrs.  Draper's  select  and  amusing 
teas  and  dinners,  as  that  lady  had  a  great  fancy  for  sur- 
rounding herself  with  youth,  meaning,  for  the  most  part, 
naturally  enough,  masculine  youth.  With  an  unerring  and 
practised  eye  she  picked  out  from  each  class  the  few  young 
men  who  were  to  her  purpose,  and  proclaiming  with  the 
most  express  lack  of  reticence  the  forty-three  years  which 
she  by  no  means  looked,  she  took  these  chosen  few  undei 
a  wing  frankly  maternal,  giving  them,  in  the  course  of  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  her  and  the  dim  and  twilight 
ways  of  her  house  and  life,  an  enlightening  experience  of 
a  civilization  which  she  herself  said,  with  a  humorous  ap- 
preciation of  her  own  value,  quite  made  over  the  young,  un- 
licked  cubs.  This  statement  of  her  influence  on  most  of 
the  young  men  drawn  into  her  circle  was  perhaps  not  much 
exaggerated. 

From  time  to  time  she  also  admitted  into  this  charmed 
circle  a  young  girl  or  two,  though  almost  never  one  of  the 
University  girls,  of  whom  she  made  the  jolliest  possible  fun. 
Her  favorites  were  the  daughters  of  good  La  Chance 
families  who  at  seventeen  had  "  finished  "  at  Miss  Home's 
Select  School  for  Young  Ladies,  and  who  came  out  in 
society  not  later  than  eighteen.  She  seemed  able,  as  long 
as  she  cared  to  do  it,  to  exercise  as  irresistible  a  fascina- 
tion over  these  youthful  members  of  her  own  sex  as  over  the 
older  masculine  undergraduates  of  the  University.  They 
copied  their  friend's  hats  and  neckwear  and  shoes  and  her 
mannerisms  of  speech,  were  miserable  if  she  neglected  them 
for  a  day,  furiously  jealous  of  each  other,  and  raised  to  the 
seventh  heaven  by  attention  from  her.  Just  at  present  the 
only  girl  admitted  frequently  to  Mrs.  Draper's  intimacy  was 
Eleanor  Hubert. 

On  the  day  following  the  Gymnasium  exhibition,  when 


Mrs.  Draper  Blows  the  Coals  159 

Sylvia,  promptly  at  five,  entered  the  picturesque  vine- 
covered  Draper  house,  she  found  it  occupied  by  none  of 
the  usual  habitues  of  the  place.  The  white-capped,  black- 
garbed  maid  who  opened  the  door  to  the  girl  held  aside 
for  her  a  pair  of  heavy  brown-velvet  portieres  which  veiled 
the  entrance  to  the  drawing-room.  The  utter  silence  of  this 
servitor  seemed  portentous  and  inhuman  to  the  young  guest, 
unused  to  the  polite  convention  that  servants  cast  no 
shadow  and  do  not  exist  save  when  serving  their  superiors. 

She  found  herself  in  a  room  as  unlike  any  she  had  ever 
seen  as  though  she  had  stepped  into  a  new  planet.  The 
light  here  was  as  yellow  as  gold,  and  came  from  a  great 
many  candles  which,  in  sconces  and  candelabra,  stood  about 
the  room,  their  oblong  yellow  flame  as  steady  in  the  breath- 
less quiet  of  the  air  as  though  they  burned  in  a  vault  under- 
ground. There  was  not  a  book  in  the  room,  except  one  in 
a  yellow  cover  lying  beside  a  box  of  candy  on  the  mantel- 
piece, but  every  ledge,  table,  projection,  or  shelf  was  cov- 
ered with  small,  queerly  fashioned,  dully  gleaming  objects 
of  ivory,  or  silver,  or  brass,  or  carved  wood,  or  porcelain. 

The  mistress  of  the  room  now  came  in.  She  was  in  a 
loose  garment  of  smoke-brown  chiffon,  held  in  place  occa- 
sionally about  her  luxuriously  rounded  figure  by  a  heavy 
cord  of  brown  silk.  She  advanced  to  Sylvia  with  both  hands 
outstretched,  and  took  the  girl's  slim,  rather  hard  young 
fingers  in  the  softest  of  melting  palms.  "  Aren't  you  a 
dear,  to  be  so  exactly  on  time !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Sylvia  was  a  little  surprised.  She  had  thought  it  axio- 
matic that  people  kept  their  appointments  promptly.  "  Oh, 
I'm  always  on  time,"  she  answered  simply. 

Mrs.  Draper  laughed  and  pulled  her  down  on  the  sofa. 
"  You  clear-eyed  young  Diana,  you  won't  allow  me  even 
an  instant's  illusion  that  you  were  eager  to  come  to  see  me !  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  was! "  said  Sylvia  hastily,  fearing  that  she 
might  have  said  something  rude. 

Mrs.  Draper  laughed  again  and  gave  the  hand  she  still 
held  a  squeeze.  "  You're  adorable,  that's  what  you  are !  M 
She  exploded  this  pointblank  charge  in  Sylvia's  face  with 


160  The  Bent  Twig 

nonchalant  ease,  and  went  on  with  another.  "  Jerry  Fiske 
is  quite  right  about  you.  I  suppose  you  know  that  you're 
here  today  so  that  Jerry  can  meet  you." 

As  there  was  obviously  not  the  faintest  possibility  of 
Sylvia's  having  heard  this  save  through  her  present  in- 
formant, she  could  only  look  what  she  felt,  very  much  at 
a  loss,  and  rather  blank,  with  a  heightened  color.  Mrs. 
Draper  eyed  her  with  an  intentness  at  variance  with  the 
lightness  of  her  tone,  as  she  continued :  u  I  do  think  Jerry'd 
have  burned  up  in  one  flare,  like  a  torch,  if  he  couldn't 
have  seen  you  at  once !  After  you'd  fenced  and  disappeared 
again  into  that  stupid  crowd  of  graceless  girls,  he  kept 
track  of  you  every  minute  with  his  opera-glasses,  and  kept 
saying :  '  She's  a  goddess !  Good  Lord !  how  she  carries 
herself ! '  It  was  rather  hard  on  poor  Eleanor  right  there 
beside  him,  but  I  don't  blame  him.  Eleanor's  a  sweet  thing, 
but  she'd  be  sugar  and  water  compared  to  champagne  if 
she  stood  up  by  you." 

For  a  good  many  months  Sylvia  had  been  craving  praise 
with  a  starved  appetite,  and  although  she  found  this  down- 
pour of  it  rather  drenching,  she  could  not  sufficiently  col- 
lect herself  to  make  the  conventional  decent  pretense  that  it 
was  unwelcome.  She  flushed  deeply  and  looked  at  her 
hostess  with  dazzled  eyes.  Mrs.  Draper  affected  to  see  in 
her  silence  a  blankness  as  to  the  subject  of  the  talk,  and 
interrupted  the  flow  of  personalities  to  cry  out,  with  a  pre- 
tense of  horror,  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  don't  know 
who  Jerry  Fiske  isl" 

Sylvia,  as  unused  as  her  mother  to  conversational  traps, 
fell  into  this  one  with  an  eager  promptness.  "  Oh  yes,  in- 
deed ;  I  know  him  by  sight  very  well,"  she  said  and  stopped, 
flushing  again  at  a  significant  laugh  from  Mrs.  Draper.  "  I 
mean,"  she  went  on  with  dignity,  "  that  Mr.  Fiske  has  al- 
ways been  so  prominent  in  college — football  and  all,  you 
know — and  his  father  being  one  of  our  State  Senators  so 
long — I  suppose  everybody  on  the  campus  knows  him  by 
sight."  Mrs.  Draper  patted  the  girl's  shoulder  propitiat- 
ingly.     "  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  she  assented.     She  added, 


Mrs.  Draper  Blows  the  Coals  161 

"  He's  ever  so  good-looking,  don't  you  think — like  a  great 
Viking  with  his  yellow  hair  and  bright  blue  eyes  ?  " 

"  I  never  noticed  his  eyes,"  said  Sylvia  stiffly,  suspicious 
of  ridicule  in  the  air. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  a  chance  to  this  afternoon,"  answered 
her  hostess,  "  for  he's  the  only  other  person  who's  to  be 
admitted  to  the  house.  I  had  a  great  time  excusing  myself 
to  Eleanor — she  was  coming  to  take  me  out  driving — but  of 
course  it  wouldn't  do — for  her  own  sake — the  poor  darling 
— to  have  her  here  today !  " 

Sylvia  thought  she  could  not  have  rightly  understood  the 
significance  of  this  speech,  and  looked  uncomfortable.  'Mrs. 
Draper  said :  "  Oh,  you  needn't  mind  cutting  Eleanor  out — 
she's  only  a  dear  baby  who  can't  feel  anything  very  deeply. 
It's  Mamma  Hubert  who's  so  mad  about  catching  Jerry. 
Since  she's  heard  he's  to  have  the  Fiske  estate  at  Mercerton 
as  soon  as  he  graduates  from  Law  School,  she's  like  a  wild 
creature!  If  Eleanor  weren't  the  most  unconscious  little 
bait  that  ever  hung  on  a  hook  Jerry'd  have  turned  away  in 
disgust  long  ago.  He  may  not  be  so  very  acute,  but  Mamma 
Hubert  and  her  manceuvers  are  not  millstones  for  seeing 
through !  " 

The  doorbell  rang,  one  long  and  one  short  tap.  "  That's 
Jerry's  ring,"  said  Mrs.  Draper  composedly,  as  though  she 
had  been  speaking  of  her  husband.  In  an  instant  the  heavy 
portieres  were  flung  back  by  a  vigorous  arm,  and  a  very 
tall,  broad-shouldered,  clean-shaven  young  man,  in  a  well- 
tailored  brown  suit,  stepped  in.  He  accosted  his  hostess 
with  easy  assurance,  but  went  through  his  introduction  to 
Sylvia  in  a  rather  awkward  silence. 

"  Now  we'll  have  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Draper  at  once,  pressing 
a  button.  In  a  moment  a  maid  brought  in  a  tray  shining 
with  silver  and  porcelain,  set  it  down  on  the  table  in  front 
of  Mrs.  Draper,  and  then  wheeled  in  a  little  circular  table 
with  shelves,  a  glorified  edition  in  gleaming  mahogany  of 
the  homely,  white-painted  wheeled-tray  of  Sylvia's  home. 
On  the  shelves  was  a  large  assortment  of  delicate,  small 
cakes    and    paper-thin    sandwiches.      While    she    poured 


1 62  The  Bent  Twig 

out  the  amber-colored  tea  into  the  translucent  cups, 
Mrs.  Draper  kept  up  with  the  new-comer  a  lively  mono- 
logue of  personalities,  in  which  Sylvia,  for  very  ignorance 
of  the  people  involved,  could  take  no  part.  She  sat  silent, 
watching  with  concentration  the  two  people  before  her,  the 
singularly  handsome  man,  certainly  the  handsomest  man  she 
had  ever  seen,  and  the  far  from  handsome  but  singularly 
alluring  woman  who  faced  him,  making  such  a  display  of 
her  two  good  points,  her  rich  figure  and  her  fine  dark  eyes, 
that  for  an  instant  the  rest  of  her  person  seemed  non- 
existent. 

"How  do  you  like  your  tea,  dear?"  The  mistress  of 
the  house  brought  her  stranded  guest  back  into  the  current 
of  talk  with  this  well-worn  hook. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  make  any  difference,"  said  Sylvia,  who, 
as  it  happened,  did  not  like  the  taste  of  tea. 

"  You  really  ought  to  have  it  nectar ;  with  whipped  am- 
brosia on  top."  Mrs.  Draper  troweled  this  statement  on 
with  a  dashing  smear,  saving  Sylvia  from  being  forced  to 
answer,  by  adding  lightly  to  the  man,  "  Is  ambrosia  any- 
thing that  will  whip,  do  you  suppose  ?  " 

"  Never  heard  of  it  before,"  he  answered,  breaking  his 
silence  with  a  carefree  absence  of  shame  at  his  confession 
of  ignorance.  "  Sounds  like  one  of  those  labels  on  a  soda- 
water  fountain  that  nobody  ever  samples." 

Mrs.  Draper  made  a  humorously  exaggerated  gesture  of 
despair  and  turned  to  Sylvia.  "  Well,  it's  just  as  well,  my 
dear,  that  you  should  know  at  the  very  beginning  what  a 
perfect  monster  of  illiteracy  he  is !  You  needn't  expect  any- 
thing from  him  but  his  stupid  good-looks,  and  money  and 
fascination.  Otherwise  he's  a  Cave-Man  for  ignorance. 
You  must  take  him  in  hand !  "  She  turned  back  to  the  man. 
*'  Sylvia,  you  know,  is  as  clever  as  she  is  beautiful.  She  had 
the  highest  rank  but  three  in  her  class  last  year." 

Sylvia  was  overcome  with  astonishment  by  this  knowl- 
edge of  a  fact  which  had  seemed  to  make  no  impression  on 
the  world  of  the  year  before.  "  Why,  how  could  you  know 
that !  "  she  cried. 


Mrs.  Draper  Blows  the  Coals  163 

Mrs.  Draper  laughed.  "  Just  hear  her !  "  she  appealed  to 
the  young  man.  Her  method  of  promoting  the  acquaintance 
of  the  two  young  people  seemed  to  consist  in  talking  to  each 
of  the  other.  "  Just  hear  her !  She  converses  as  she  fences 
— one  bright  flash,  and  you're  skewered  against  the  wall — 
no  parryings  possible  !  "  She  faced  Sylvia  again :  "  Why, 
my  dear,  in  answer  to  your  rapier-like  question,  I  must 
simply  confess  that  this  morning,  being  much  struck  with 
Jerry's  being  struck  with  you,  I  went  over  to  the  registrar's 
office  and  looked  you  up.  I  know  that  you  passed  supremely 
well  in  mathematics  and  French  (what  a  quaint  combina- 
tion!), very  well  indeed  in  history  and  chemistry,  and 
moderately  in  botany.  What's  the  matter  with  botany?  I 
have  always  found  Professor  Cross  a  very  obliging  little 
man." 

"  He  doesn't  make  me  see  any  sense  to  botany,"  explained 
Sylvia,  taking  the  question  seriously.  "  I  don't  seem  to  get 
hold  of  any  real  reason  for  studying  it  at  all.  What  dif- 
ference does  it  make  if  a  bush  is  a  hawthorn  or  not? — 
and  anyhow,  I  know  it's  a  hawthorn  without  studying 
botany." 

The  young  man  spoke  for  himself  now,  with  a  keen  relish 
for  Sylvia's  words.  He  faced  her  for  the  first  time.  "  Now 
you're  shouting,  Miss  Marshall !  "  he  said.  "  That's  the 
most  sensible  thing  I  ever  heard  said.  That's  just  what  I 
always  felt  about  the  whole  B.A.  course,  anyhow !  What's 
the  diff?  Who  cares  whether  Charlemagne  lived  in  six 
hundred  or  sixteen  hundred?  It  all  happened  before  we 
were  born.    What's  it  all  to  us  ?  " 

Sylvia  looked  squarely  at  him,  a  little  startled  at  his  di- 
rectly addressing  her,  not  hearing  a  word  of  what  he  said 
in  the  vividness  of  her  first-hand  impression  of  his  per- 
sonality, his  brilliant  blue  eyes,  his  full,  very  red  lips,  his 
boldly  handsome  face  and  carriage,  his  air  of  confidence. 
In  spite  of  his  verbal  agreement  with  her  opinion,  his  look 
crossed  hers  dashingly,  like  a  challenge,  a  novelty  in  the 
amicable  harmony  which  had  been  the  tradition  of  her  life. 
She  felt  that  tradition  to  be  not  without  its  monotony,  and 


164  The  Bent  Twig 

her  young  blood  warmed.  She  gazed  back  at  him  silently, 
wonderingly,  frankly. 

With  her  radiantly  sensuous  youth  in  the  first  splendor  of 
its  opening,  with  this  frank,  direct  look,  she  had  a  moment 
of  brilliance  to  make  the  eyes  of  age  shade  themselves  as 
against  a  dazzling  brightness.  The  eyes  of  the  man  op- 
posite her  were  not  those  of  age.  They  rested  on  her, 
aroused,  kindling  to  heat.  His  head  went  up  like  a  stag's. 
She  felt  a  momentary  hot  throb  of  excitement,  as  though 
her  body  were  one  great  fiddle-string,  twanging  under  a 
vigorously  plucking  thumb.  It  was  thrilling,  it  was  startling, 
it  was  not  altogether  pleasant.  The  corners  of  her  sensitive 
mouth  twitched  uncertainly. 

Mrs.  Draper,  observing  from  under  her  down-drooped 
lids  this  silent  passage  between  the  two,  murmured  amusedly 
to  herself,  "  Ah,  now  you're  shouting,  my  children ! " 


CHAPTER  XVI 
PLAYING  WITH  MATCHES 

There  was  much  that  was  acrid  about  the  sweetness  of 
triumph  which  the  next  months  brought  Sylvia.  The  sud- 
den change  in  her  life  had  not  come  until  there  was  an 
accumulation  of  bitterness  in  her  heart  the  venting  of  which 
was  the  strongest  emotion  of  that  period  of  strong  emotions. 
As  she  drove  about  the  campus,  perched  on  the  high  seat 
of  the  red-wheeled  dog-cart,  her  lovely  face  looked  down 
with  none  of  Eleanor  Hubert's  gentleness  into  the  envying 
eyes  of  the  other  girls.  A  high  color  burned  in  her  cheeks, 
and  her  bright  eyes  were  not  soft.  She  looked  continually 
excited. 

At  home  she  was  hard  to  live  with,  quick  to  take  offense 
at  the  least  breath  of  the  adverse  criticism  which  she  felt, 
unspoken  and  forbearing  but  thick  in  the  air  about  her.  She 
neglected  her  music,  she  neglected  her  studies;  she  spent 
long  hours  of  feverish  toil  over  Aunt  Victoria's  chiffons  and 
silks.  There  was  need  for  many  toilets  now,  for  the  in- 
cessantly recurring  social  events  to  which  she  went  with 
young  Fiske,  chaperoned  by  Mrs.  Draper,  who  had  for  her 
old  rival  and  enemy,  Mrs.  Hubert,  the  most  mocking  of 
friendly  smiles,  as  she  entered  a  ballroom,  the  acknowledged 
sponsor  of  the  brilliant  young  sensation  of  the  college 
season. 

At  these  dances  Sylvia  had  the  grim  satisfaction,  not  in- 
frequently the  experience  of  intelligent  young  ladies,  of 
being  surrounded  by  crowds  of  admiring  young  men,  for 
whom  she  had  no  admiration,  the  barren  sterility  of  whose 
conversation  filled  her  with  astonishment,  even  in  her  fever 
of  exultation.  She  knew  the  delights  of  frequently  "  split- 
ting "  her  dances  so  that  there  might  be  enough  to  go 
around.     She  was  plunged  headlong  into  the  torrent  of 

165 


1 66  The  Bent  Twig 

excitement  which  is  the  life  of  a  social  favorite  at  a  large 
State  University,  that  breathless  whirl  of  one  engagement 
after  another  for  every  evening  and  for  most  of  the  days, 
which  is  one  of  the  oddest  developments  of  the  academic 
life  as  planned  and  provided  for  by  the  pioneer  fathers  of 
those  great  Western  commonwealths ;  and  she  savored  every 
moment  of  it,  for  during  every  moment  she  drank  deep  at 
the  bitter  fountain  of  personal  vindication.  She  went  to 
all  the  affairs  which  had  ignored  her  the  year  before,  to  all 
the  dances  given  by  the  "  swell  men's  fraternities,"  to  the 
Sophomore  hop,  to  the  "  Football  Dance,"  at  the  end  of  the 
season,  to  the  big  reception  given  to  the  Freshman  class  by 
the  Seniors.  And  in  addition  to  these  evening  affairs,  she 
appeared  beside  Jerry  Fiske  at  every  football  game,  at  the 
first  Glee  Club  Concert,  at  the  outdoor  play  given  by  the 
Literary  Societies,  and  very  frequently  at  the  weekly  recep- 
tions to  the  students  tendered  by  the  ladies  of  the  faculty. 
These  affairs  were  always  spoken  of  by  the  faculty  as 
an  attempt  to  create  a  homogeneous  social  atmosphere  on 
the  campus;  but  this  attempt  had  ended,  as  such  efforts 
usually  do,  in  adding  to  the  bewildering  plethora  of  social 
life  of  those  students  who  already  had  too  much,  and  in 
being  an  added  sting  to  the  solitude  and  ostracism  of  those 
who  had  none.  Naturally  enough,  the  ladies  of  the  faculty 
who  took  most  interest  in  these  afternoon  functions  were 
the  ones  who  cared  most  for  society  life,  and  there  was 
only  too  obvious  a  contrast  between  their  manner  of  kindly, 
vague,  condescending  interest  shown  to  one  of  the  "  rough- 
neck "  students,  and  the  easy  familiarity  shown  to  one  of 
those  socially  "  possible."  The  "  rough-necks "  seldom 
sought  out  more  than  once  the  prettily  decorated  tables 
spread  every  Friday  afternoon  in  the  Faculty  Room,  off  the 
reading-room  of  the  Library.  Sylvia  especially  had,  on  the 
only  occasion  when  she  had  ventured  into  this  charming 
scene,  suffered  too  intensely  from  the  difference  of  treat- 
ment accorded  her  and  that  given  Eleanor  Hubert  to  feel 
anything  but  angry  resentment.  After  that  experience,  she 
had  passed  along  the  halls  with  the  other  outsiders,  books 


Playing  with  Matches  167 

in  hand,  her  head  held  proudly  high,  and  never  turned  even 
to  glance  in  at  the  gleaming  tables,  the  lighted  candles,  and 
the  little  groups  of  easily  self-confident  fraternity  men  and 
girls  laughing  and  talking  over  their  teacups,  and  revenging 
vicariously  the  rest  of  the  ignored  student-body  by  the  calm 
young  insolence  with  which  they  in  their  turn  ignored  their 
presumptive  hostesses,  the  faculty  ladies. 

Mrs.  Draper  changed  all  this  for  Sylvia  with  a  wave  of 
her  wand.  She  took  the  greatest  pains  to  introduce  her 
protegee  into  this  phase  of  the  social  life  of  the  University. 
On  these  occasions,  as  beautiful  and  as  over-dressed  as  any 
girl  in  the  room,  with  Jermain  Fiske  in  obvious  attendance ; 
with  the  exclusive  Mrs.  Draper  setting  in  a  rich  frame  of 
commentary  any  remark  she  happened  to  make  ( Sylvia  was 
acquiring  a  reputation  for  great  wit)  ;  with  Eleanor  Hubert, 
eclipsed,  sitting  in  a  corner,  quite  deserted  save  for  a  funny 
countrified  freak  assistant  in  chemistry ;  with  all  the  "  swell-* 
est  f  rat  men  "  in  college  rushing  to  get  her  tea  and  sand- 
wiches ;  with  Mrs.  Hubert  plunged  obviously  into  acute  un- 
happiness,  Sylvia  knew  as  ugly  moments  of  mean  satisfac- 
tion as  often  fall  to  the  lot  even  of  very  pretty  young 
women. 

At  home  she  knew  no  moments  of  satisfaction  of  any 
variety,  although  there  was  no  disapprobation  expressed  by 
any  one,  except  in  one  or  two  characteristically  recondite 
comments  by  Professor  Kennedy,  who  was  taking  a  rather 
uneasy  triumph  in  the  proof  of  an  old  theory  of  his  as  to 
Sylvia's  character.  One  afternoon,  at  a  football  game,  he 
came  up  to  her  on  the  grandstand,  shook  hands  with  Jer- 
main Fiske,  whom  he  had  flunked  innumerable  times  in 
algebra,  and  remarked  in  his  most  acid  voice  that  he  wished 
to  congratulate  the  young  man  on  being  the  perfect  specimen 
of  the  dolichocephalic  blond  whose  arrival  in  Sylvia's  life 
he  had  predicted  years  before.  Sylvia,  belligerently  aware 
of  the  attitude  of  her  home  world,  and  ready  to  resent 
criticism,  took  the  liveliest  offense  at  this  obscure  comment, 
which  she  perfectly  understood.  She  flushed  indignantly  and 
glared  in  silence  with  the  eyes  of  an  angry  young  goddess. 


168  The  Bent  Twig 

Young  Fiske,  who  found  the  remark,  or  any  other  made  by 
a  college  prof,  quite  as  unintelligible  as  it  was  unimportant, 
laughed  with  careless  impudence  in  the  old  man's  face ;  and 
Mrs.  Draper,  for  all  her  keenness,  could  make  nothing  of  it. 
It  sounded,  however,  so  quite  like  a  dictum  which  she  her- 
self would  have  liked  to  make,  that  she  cross-questioned 
Sylvia  afterwards  as  to  its  meaning ;  but  Sylvia  lied  fluently, 
asserting  that  it  was  just  some  of  Professor  Kennedy's 
mathematical  gibberish  which  had  no  meaning. 

In  the  growing  acquaintance  of  Sylvia  and  Jermain,  Mrs. 
Draper  acted  assiduously  as  chaperon,  a  refinement  of 
sophisticated  society  which  was,  as  a  rule,  but  vaguely  ob- 
served in  the  chaotic  flux  of  State  University  social  life,  and 
she  so  managed  affairs  that  they  were  seldom  together 
alone.  For  obvious  reasons  Sylvia  preferred  to  see  the 
young  man  elsewhere  than  in  her  own  home,  where  indeed 
he  made  almost  no  appearance,  beyond  standing  at  the  door 
of  an  evening,  very  handsome  and  distinguished  in  his 
evening  dress,  waiting  for  Sylvia  to  put  on  her  wraps  and 
go  out  with  him  to  the  carriage  where  Mrs.  Draper  sat  ex- 
pectant, furred  and  velvet-wrapped.  This  discreet  man- 
ager made  no  objection  to  Sylvia's  driving  about  the  campus 
in  the  daytime  alone  with  Jermain,  but  to  his  proposal  to 
drive  the  girl  out  to  the  country-club  for  dinner  one  evening 
she  added  blandly  the  imperious  proviso  that  she  be  of  the 
party;  and  she  discouraged  with  firmness  any  projects  for 
solitary  walks  together  through  the  woods  near  the  campus, 
although  this  was  a  recognized  form  of  co-educational 
amusement  at  that  institution  of  learning. 

For  all  her  air  of  free-and-easy  equality  with  the  young 
man,  she  had  at  times  a  certain  blighting  glance  which, 
turned  on  him  suddenly,  always  brought  him  to  an  agree- 
ment with  her  opinion,  an  agreement  which  might  obviously 
ring  but  verbal  on  his  tongue,  but  which  was  nevertheless 
the  acknowledged  basis  of  action.  As  for  Sylvia,  she 
acquiesced,  with  an  eagerness  which  she  did  not  try  to 
understand,  in  any  arrangement  which  precluded  tete-a-tetes 
with  Jerry. 


Playing  with  Matches  169 

She  did  not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  try  to  understand  any- 
thing of  what  was  happening  to  her.  She  was  by  no  means 
sure  that  she  liked  it,  but  was  stiffened  into  a  stubborn  re- 
sistance to  any  doubts  by  the  unvoiced  objection  to  it  all  at 
home.  With  an  instinct  against  disproportion,  perverse  per- 
haps in  this  case,  but  with  a  germ  of  soundness  in  it,  she 
felt  confusedly  and  resentfully  that  since  her  home  circle 
was  so  patently  narrow  and  exaggerated  in  its  standard  of 
personality,  she  would  just  have  to  even  things  up  by 
being  a  little  less  fastidious  than  was  her  instinct ;  and  on  the 
one  or  two  occasions  when  a  sudden  sight  of  Jerry  sent 
through  her  a  strange,  unpleasant  stir  of  all  her  flesh,  she 
crushed  the  feeling  out  of  sight  under  her  determination  to 
assert  her  own  judgment  and  standards  against  those  which 
had  (she  now  felt)  so  tyrannically  influenced  her  childhood. 
But  for  the  most  part  she  did  little  thinking,  shaking  as 
loudly  as  possible  the  reverberating  rattle  of  physical  ex- 
citement. 

Thus  everything  progressed  smoothly  under  Mrs.  Dra- 
per's management.  The  young  couple  met  each  other 
usually  in  the  rather  close  air  of  her  candle-lighted  living- 
room,  drinking  a  great  deal  of  tea,  consuming  large  numbers 
of  delicate,  strangely  compounded  sandwiches,  and  listen- 
ing to  an  endless  flow  of  somewhat  startlingly  frank  per- 
sonalities from  the  magnetic  mistress  of  the  house.  Sylvia 
and  Jermain  did  not  talk  much  on  these  occasions.  They 
listened  with  edification  to  the  racy  remarks  of  their  hostess, 
voicing  that  theoretical  "  broadness  "  of  opinion  as  to  the 
conduct  of  life  which,  quite  as  much  as  the  perfume  which 
she  always  used,  was  a  specialty  of  her  provocative  per- 
sonality; they  spoke  now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  as  she  drew 
them  into  conversation,  but  their  real  intercourse  was  al- 
most altogether  silent.  They  eyed  each  other  across  the 
table,  breathing  quickly,  and  flushing  or  paling  if  their 
hands  chanced  to  touch  in  the  services  of  the  tea-table. 
Once  the  young  man  came  in  earlier  than  usual  and  found 
Sylvia  alone  for  a  moment  in  the  silent,  glowing,  perfumed 
room.    He  took  her  hand,  apparently  for  the  ordinary  hand- 


170  The  Bent  Twig 

clasp  of  greeting,  but  with  a  surge  of  his  blood  retained 
it,  pressing  it  so  fiercely  that  his  ring  cut  into  her  finger, 
causing  a  tiny  drop  of  bright  red  to  show  on  the  youthful 
smoothness  of  her  skin.  At  this  living  ruby  they  both  stared 
fixedly  for  an  instant ;  then  Mrs.  Draper  came  hastily  into 
the  room,  saying  chidingly,  "  Come,  come,  children ! "  and 
looking  with  displeasure  at  the  man's  darkly  flushed  face. 
Sylvia  was  paler  than  usual  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon, 
and  could  not  swallow  a  mouthful  of  the  appetizing  food, 
which  as  a  rule  she  devoured  with  the  frank  satisfaction  of 
a  hungry  child.  She  sat,  rather  white,  not  talking  much, 
avoiding  Jerry's  eyes  for  no  reason  that  she  could  analyze, 
and,  in  the  pauses  of  the  conversation,  could  hear  the  blood 
singing  loudly  in  her  ears. 

Yet,  although  she  felt  the  oddest  relief,  as  after  one  more 
escape,  at  the  end  of  each  of  these  afternoons  with  her  new 
acquaintances,  afternoons  in  which  the  three  seemed  per- 
petually gliding  down  a  steep  incline  and  as  perpetually 
being  arrested  on  the  brink  of  some  unexplained  plunge, 
she  found  that  their  atmosphere  had  spoiled  entirely  her 
relish  for  the  atmosphere  of  her  home.  The  home  supper- 
table  seemed  to  her  singularly  flat  and  distasteful  with  its 
commonplace  fare — hot  chocolate  and  creamed  potatoes  and 
apple  sauce,  and  its  brisk,  impersonal  talk  of  socialism,  and 
politics,  and  small  home  events,  and  music.  As  it  hap- 
pened, the  quartet  had  the  lack  of  intuition  to  play  a  great 
deal  of  Haydn  that  autumn,  and  to  Sylvia  the  cheerful, 
obvious  tap-tap-tap  of  the  hearty  old  master  seemed  to 
typify  the  bald,  unsubtle  obtuseness  of  the  home  attitude 
towards  life.  She  herself  took  to  playing  the  less  difficult 
of  the  Chopin  nocturnes  with  a  languorous  over-accentuation 
of  their  softness  which  she  was  careful  to  keep  from  the 
ears  of  old  Reinhardt.  But  one  evening  he  came  in,  un- 
heard, listened  to  her  performance  of  the  B-flat  minor 
nocturne  with  a  frown,  and  pulled  her  away  from  the 
piano  before  she  had  finished.  "  Not  true  music,  not  true 
love,  not  true  anydings ! "  he  said,  speaking  however  with 
an  unexpected  gentleness,  and  patting  her  on  the  shoulder 


Playing  with  Matches  171! 

with  a  dirty  old  hand.  "  Listen !  "  He  clapped  his  fiddle 
under  his  chin  and  played  the  air  of  the  andante  from  the 
Kreutzer  Sonata  with  so  singing  and  heavenly  a  tone  that 
Sylvia,  as  helpless  an  instrument  in  his  skilful  hands  as 
the  violin  itself,  felt  the  nervous  tears  stinging  her  eyelids. 

This  did  not  prevent  her  making  a  long  detour  the  next 
day  to  avoid  meeting  the  uncomely  old  musician  on  the 
street  and  being  obliged  to  recognize  him  publicly.  She 
lived  in  perpetual  dread  of  being  thus  forced,  when  in  the 
company  of  Mrs.  Draper  or  Jermain,  to  acknowledge  her 
connection  with  him,  or  with  Cousin  Parnelia,  or  with  any 
of  the  eccentrics  who  frequented  her  parents'  home,  and 
whom  it  was  physically  impossible  to  imagine  drinking  tea 
at  Mrs.  Draper's  table. 

It  was  beside  this  same  table  that  she  met,  one  day  in 
early  December,  Jermain  Fiske's  distinguished  father.  He 
explained  that  he  was  in  La  Chance  for  a  day  on  his  way 
from  Washington  to  Mercerton,  where  the  Fiske  family 
was  collecting  for  its  annual  Christmas  house-party,  and 
had  dropped  in  on  Mrs.  Draper  quite  unexpectedly.  He 
was,  he  added,  delighted  that  it  happened  to  be  a  day 
when  he  could  meet  the  lovely  Miss  Marshall  of  whom 
(with  a  heavy  accent  of  jocose  significance)  he  had  heard 
so  much.  Sylvia  was  a  little  confused  by  the  pointed  atten- 
tions of  this  gallant  old  warrior,  oddly  in  contrast  with  the 
manner  of  other  elderly  men  she  knew;  but  she  thought 
him  very  handsome,  with  his  sweeping  white  mustache,  his 
bright  blue  eyes,  so  like  his  son's,  and  she  was  much  im- 
pressed with  his  frock-coat,  fitting  snugly  around  his  well- 
knit,  erect  figure,  and  with  the  silk  hat  which  she  noticed 
on  the  table  in  the  hall  as  she  went  in.  Frock-coats  and 
silk  hats  were  objects  seldom  encountered  in  La  Chance, 
except  in  illustrations  to  magazine-stories,  or  in  photographs 
of  life  in  New  York  or  Washington.  But  of  course,  she 
reflected,  Colonel  Fiske  lived  most  of  his  life  in  Washington, 
about  the  cosmopolitan  delights  of  which  he  talked  most 
eloquently  to  the  two  ladies. 

As  was  inevitable,  Sylvia  also  met  Eleanor  Hubert  more 


172  The  Bent  Twig 

or  less  at  Mrs.  Draper's.  Sylvia  had  been  rendered  acutely 
self-conscious  in  that  direction  by  Mrs.  Draper's  very  open 
comments  on  her  role  in  the  life  of  the  other  girl,  and  at 
first  had  been  so  smitten  by  embarrassment  as  positively  to 
be  awkward,  a  rare  event  in  her  life  :  but  she  was  soon  set  at 
ease  by  the  other  girl's  gentle  friendliness,  so  simple  and  sin- 
cere that  even  Sylvia's  suspicious  vanity  could  not  feel  it  to  be 
condescension.  Eleanor's  sweet  eyes  shone  so  kindly  on  her 
successful  rival,  and  she  showed  so  frank  and  unenvious  an 
admiration  of  Sylvia's  wit  and  learning,  displayed  perhaps 
a  trifle  ostentatiously  by  that  young  lady  in  the  ensuing  con- 
versation with  Mrs.  Draper,  that  Sylvia  had  a  fresh,  healing 
impulse  of  shame  for  her  own  recently  acquired  attitude  of 
triumphing  hostility  towards  the  world. 

At  the  same  time  she  felt  a  surprised  contempt  for  the 
other  girl's  ignorance  and  almost  illiteracy.  Whatever  else 
Eleanor  had  learned  in  the  exclusive  and  expensive  girls' 
school  in  New  York,  she  had  not  learned  to  hold  her  own 
in  a  conversation  on  the  most  ordinary  topics ;  and  as  for 
Mrs.  Draper's  highly  spiced  comments  on  life  and  folk,  her 
young  friend  made  not  the  slightest  attempt  to  cope  with 
them  or  even  to  understand  them.  The  alluring  mistress 
of  the  house  might  talk  of  sex-antagonism  and  the  hateful- 
ness  of  the  puritanical  elements  of  American  life  as  much 
as  she  pleased.  It  all  passed  over  the  head  of  the  lovely, 
fair  girl,  sipping  her  tea  and  raising  her  candid  eyes  to  meet 
with  a  trustful  smile,  perhaps  a  little  blank,  the  glance  of 
whomever  chanced  to  be  looking  at  her.  It  was  significant 
that  she  had  the  same  smile  for  each  of  the  three  very  dis- 
similar persons  who  sat  about  the  tea-table.  Of  all  the  circle 
into  which  Sylvia's  changed  life  had  plunged  her,  Eleanor, 
the  type  of  the  conventional  society  bud,  was,  oddly  enough, 
the  only  one  she  cared  to  talk  about  in  her  own  extremely 
unconventional  home.  But  even  on  this  topic  she  felt 
herself  bruised  and  jarred  by  the  severity,  the  unpictur- 
esque  austerity  of  the  home  standards.  As  she  was  trying  to 
give  her  mother  some  idea  of  Eleanor's  character,  she  quoted 
one  day  a  remark  of  Mrs.  Draper's,  to  the  effect  that 


Playing  with  Matches  173 

"  Eleanor  no  more  knows  the  meaning  of  her  beauty  than 
a  rose  the  meaning  of  its  perfume."  Mrs.  Marshall  kept 
a  forbidding  silence  for  a  moment  and  then  said :  "  I  don't 
take  much  stock  in  that  sort  of  unconsciousness.  Eleanor 
isn't  a  rose,  she  isn't  even  a  child.  She's  a  woman.  The 
sooner  girls  learn  that  distinction,  the  better  off  they'll  be, 
and  the  fewer  chances  they'll  run  of  being  horribly  mis- 
understood." 

Sylvia  felt  very  angry  with  her  mother  for  this  un- 
sympathetic treatment  of  a  pretty  phrase,  and  thought  with 
resentment  that  it  was  not  her  fault  if  she  were  becoming 
more  and  more  alienated  from  her  family. 

This  was  a  feeling  adroitly  fostered  by  Mrs.  Draper,  who, 
in  her  endless  talks  with  Sylvia  and  Jermain  about  them- 
selves, had  hit  upon  an  expression  and  a  turn  of  phrase 
which  was  to  have  more  influence  on  Sylvia's  development 
than  its  brevity  seemed  to  warrant.  She  had,  one  day, 
called  Sylvia  a  little  Athenian,  growing  up,  by  the  oddest 
of  mistakes,  in  Sparta.  Sylvia,  who  was  in  the  Pater-read- 
ing stage  of  development,  caught  at  her  friend's  phrase  as 
at  the  longed-for  key  to  her  situation.  It  explained  every- 
thing. It  made  everything  appear  in  the  light  she  wished 
for.  Above  all  it  enabled  her  to  clarify  her  attitude  towards 
her  home.  Now  she  understood.  One  did  not  scorn  Sparta. 
One  respected  it,  it  was  a  noble  influence  in  life;  but  for 
an  Athenian,  for  whom  amenity  and  beauty  and  suavity 
were  as  essential  as  food,  Sparta  was  death.  As  was  natural 
to  her  age  and  temperament,  she  sucked  a  vast  amount  of 
pleasure  out  of  this  pitying  analysis  of  her  subtle,  compli- 
cated needs  and  the  bare  crudity  of  her  surroundings.  She 
now  read  Pater  more  assiduously  than  ever,  always  carry- 
ing a  volume  about  with  her  text-books,  and  feeding  on 
this  delicate  fare  in  such  unlikely  and  dissimilar  places  as 
on  the  trolley-cars,  in  the  kitchen,  in  the  intervals  of  prepar- 
ing a  meal,  or  in  Mrs.  Draper's  living-room,  waiting  for 
the  problematical  entrance  of  that  erratic  luminary. 

There  was  none  of  Mrs.  Draper's  habits  of  life  which 
made  more  of  an  impression  on  Sylvia's  imagination  thai? 


174  The  Bent  Twig 

her  custom  of  disregarding  engagements  and  appointments, 
of  coming  and  going,  appearing  and  disappearing  quite  as. 
she  pleased.  To  the  daughter  of  a  scrupulously  exact 
family,  which  regarded  tardiness  as  a  fault,  and  breaking  an 
appointment  as  a  crime,  this  high-handed  flexibility  in  deal- 
ing with  time  and  bonds  and  promises  had  an  exciting 
quality  of  freedom. 

On  a  good  many  occasions  these  periods  of  waiting 
chanced  to  be  shared  by  Eleanor  Hubert,  for  whom,  after 
the  first  two  or  three  encounters,  Sylvia  came  to  have  a 
rather  condescending  sympathy,  singularly  in  contrast  to  the 
uneasy  envy  with  which  she  had  regarded  her  only  a  few 
months  before.  However,  as  regards  dress,  Eleanor  was 
still  a  phenomenon  of  the  greatest  interest,  and  Sylvia  never 
saw  her  without  getting  an  idea  or  two,  although  it  was 
plain  to  any  one  who  knew  Eleanor  that  this  mastery  of 
the  technique  of  modern  American  costume  was  no  achieve- 
ment of  her  own,  that  she  was  merely  the  lovely  and  plas- 
tic material  molded,  perhaps  to  slightly  over-complicated 
effects,  by  her  mother's  hands. 

From  that  absent  but  pervasive  personality  Sylvia  took 
one  suggestion  after  another.  For  instance,  a  very  brief 
association  with  Eleanor  caused  her  to  relegate  to  the  scrap- 
heap  of  the  "  common  "  the  ready-made  white  niching  for 
neck  and  sleeves  which  she  had  always  before  taken  for 
granted.  Eleanor's  slim  neck  and  smooth  wrists  were  al- 
ways set  off  by  a  few  folds  of  the  finest  white  chiffon,  laid 
with  dexterous  carelessness,  and  always  so  exquisitely  fresh 
that  they  were  obviously  renewed  by  a  skilful  hand  after 
only  a  few  hours'  wearing.  The  first  time  she  saw  Eleanor, 
Sylvia  noticed  this  detail  with  appreciation,  and  immediately 
struggled  to  reproduce  it  in  her  own  costume.  Like  other 
feats  of  the  lesser  arts  this  perfect  trifle  turned  out  to  de- 
pend upon  the  use  of  the  lightest  and  most  adroit  touch. 
None  of  the  chiffon  which  came  in  Aunt  Victoria's  boxes 
would  do.  It  must  be  fresh  from  the  shop-counter,  ruinous 
as  this  was  to  Sylvia's  very  modest  allowance  for  dress. 
Even  then  she  spoiled  many  a  yard  of  the  filmy,  unmanage- 


Playing  with  Matches  175 

able  stuff  before  she  could  catch  the  spirit  of  those  ap- 
parently careless  folds,  so  loosely  disposed  and  yet  never 
displaced.  It  was  a  phenomenon  over  which  a  philosopher 
might  well  have  pondered,  this  spectacle  of  Sylvia's  keen 
brain  and  well-developed  will-power  equally  concerned  with 
the  problems  of  chemistry  and  philosophy  and  history,  and 
with  the  problem  of  chiffon  folds.  She  herself  was  aware 
of  no  incongruity,  indeed  of  no  difference,  between  the  two 
sorts  of  efforts. 

Many  other  matters  of  Eleanor's  attire  proved  as  fruitful 
of  suggestion  as  this,  although  Aunt  Victoria's  well-remem- 
bered dictum  about  the  "  kitchen-maid's  pin-cushion  "  was 
a  guiding  finger-board  which  warned  Sylvia  against  the 
multiplication  of  detail,  even  desirable  detail. 

Mrs.  Hubert  had  evidently  studied  deeply  the  sources  of 
distinction  in  modern  dress,  and  had  grasped  with  philo- 
sophic thoroughness  the  underlying  principle  of  the  art, 
which  is  to  show  effects  obviously  costly,  but  the  cost  of 
which  is  due  less  to  mere  brute  cash  than  to  prodigally  ex- 
pended effort.  Eleanor  never  wore  a  costume  which  did 
not  show  the  copious  exercise  by  some  alert-minded  human 
being,  presumably  with  an  immortal  soul,  of  the  priceless 
qualities  of  invention,  creative  thought,  trained  attention, 
and  prodigious  industry.  Mrs.  Hubert's  unchallengeable 
slogan  was  that  dress  should  be  an  expression  of  individ- 
uality, and  by  dint  of  utilizing  all  the  details  of  the  attire 
of  herself  and  of  her  two  daughters,  down  to  the  last  ruffie 
and  buttonhole,  she  found  this  medium  quite  sufficient  to 
express  the  whole  of  her  own  individuality,  the  conspicuous 
force  of  which  was  readily  conceded  by  any  observer  of  the 
lady's  life. 

As  for  Eleanor's  own  individuality,  any  one  in  search  of 
that  very  unobtrusive  quality  would  have  found  it  more  in 
the  expression  of  her  eyes  and  in  the  childlike  lines  of 
her  lips  than  in  her  toilets.  It  is  possible  that  Mrs.  Hubert 
might  have  regarded  it  as  an  unkind  visitation  of  Provi- 
dence that  the  results  of  her  lifetime  of  effort  in  an  im- 
portant art  should  have  been  of  such  slight  interest  to  her 


176  The  Bent  Twig 

daughter,  and  should  have  served,  during  the  autumn  under 
consideration,  chiefly  as  hints  and  suggestions  for  her 
daughter's  successful  rival. 

That  she  was  Eleanor's  successful  rival,  Sylvia  had  Mrs. 
Draper's  more  than  outspoken  word.  That  lady  openly 
gloried  in  the  impending  defeat  of  Mrs.  Hubert's  machina- 
tions to  secure  the  Fiske  money  and  position  for  Eleanor; 
although  she  admitted  that  a  man  like  Jerry  had  his  two 
opposing  sides,  and  that  he  was  quite  capable  of  being 
attracted  by  two  such  contrasting  types  as  Sylvia  and 
Eleanor.  She  informed  Sylvia  indeed  that  the  present  wife 
of  Colonel  Fiske — his  third,  by  the  way — had  evidently  been 
in  her  youth  a  girl  of  Eleanor's  temperament.  It  was  more 
than  apparent,  however,  that  in  the  case  of  the  son,  Sylvia's 
"type"  was  in  the  ascendent;  but  it  must  be  set  down  to 
Sylvia's  credit  that  the  circumstance  of  successful  competi- 
tion gave  her  no  satisfaction.  She  often  heartily  wished 
Eleanor  out  of  it.  She  could  never  meet  the  candid  sweet- 
ness of  the  other's  eyes  without  a  qualm  of  discomfort,  and 
she  suffered  acutely  under  Eleanor's  gentle  amiability. 

Once  or  twice  when  Mrs.  Draper  was  too  outrageously 
late  at  an  appointment  for  tea,  the  two  girls  gave  her  up,  and 
leaving  the  house,  walked  side  by  side  back  across  the 
campus,  Sylvia  quite  aware  of  the  wondering  surmise  which 
followed  their  appearance  together.  On  these  occasions, 
Eleanor  talked  with  more  freedom  than  in  Mrs.  Draper's 
presence,  always  in  the  quietest,  simplest  way,  of  small 
events  and  quite  uninteresting  minor  matters  in  her  life,  or 
the  life  of  the  various  household  pets,  of  which  she  seemed 
extremely  fond.  Sylvia  could  not  understand  why,  when 
she  bade  her  good-bye  at  the  driveway  leading  into  the 
Hubert  house,  she  should  feel  anything  but  a  rather  con- 
temptuous amusement  for  the  other's  insignificance,  but 
the  odd  fact  was  that  her  heart  swelled  with  inexplicable 
warmth.  Once  she  yielded  to  this  foolish  impulse,  and  felt 
a  quivering  sense  of  pleasure  at  the  sudden  startled  re- 
sponsiveness with  which  Eleanor  returned  a  kiss,  clinging 
to  her  as  though  she  were  an  older,  stronger  sister. 


Playing  with  Matches  177 

One  dark  late  afternoon  in  early  December,  Sylvia  waited 
alone  in  the  candle-lighted  shrine,  neither  Eleanor  nor  her 
hostess  appearing.  After  five  o'clock  she  started  home  alone 
along  the  heavily  shaded  paths  of  the  campus,  as  dim  as 
caves  in  the  interval  before  the  big,  winking  sputtering  arc- 
lights  were  flashed  on.  She  walked  swiftly  and  lightly 
as  was  her  well-trained  habit,  and  before  she  knew  it,  was 
close  upon  a  couple  sauntering  in  very  close  proximity. 
With  the  surety  of  long  practice  Sylvia  instantly  diagnosed 
them  as  a  college  couple  indulging  in  what  was  knowi* 
euphemistically  as  "  campus  work,"  and  prepared  to  pass 
them  with  the  slight  effect  of  scorn  for  philanderings  which 
she  always  managed  to  throw  into  her  high-held  iiead  and 
squarely  swinging  shoulders.  But  as  she  came  up  closer, 
walking  noiselessly  in  the  dusk,  she  recognized  an  eccentric, 
flame-colored  plume  just  visible  in  the  dim  light,  hanging 
down  from  the  girl's  hat — and  stopped  short,  filled  with  a 
rush  of  very  complicated  feelings.  The  only  flame-colored 
plume  in  La  Chance  was  owned  and  worn  by  Eleanor 
Hubert,  and  if  she  were  out  sauntering  amorously  in  the 
twilight,  with  whom  could  she  be  but  Jerry  Fiske, — and 
that  meant —  Sylvia's  pangs  of  conscience  about  supplant- 
ing Eleanor  were  swept  away  by  a  flood  of  anger  as  at  a 
defeat.  She  could  not  make  out  the  girl's  companion,  be- 
yond the  fact  that  he  was  tall  and  wore  a  long,  loose  over- 
coat. Jerry  was  tall  and  wore  a  long,  loose  overcoat.  Sylvia 
walked  on,  slowly  now,  thoroughly  aroused,  quite  unaware 
of  the  inconsistency  of  her  mental  attitude.  She  felt  a  ris- 
ing tide  of  heat.  She  had,  she  told  herself,  half  a  notion 
to  step  forward  and  announce  her  presence  to  the  couple, 
whose  pace  as  the  Hubert  house  was  approached  became 
slower  and  slower. 

But  then,  as  they  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  entrance  of 
the  Hubert  driveway,  the  arc-lights  blazed  up  all  over  the 
campus  at  once  and  she  saw  two  things :  one  was  that 
Eleanor  was  walking  very  close  to  her  companion,  with  her 
arm  through  his,  and  her  little  gloved  fingers  covered  by 
his  hand,  and  next  that  he  was  not  Jerry  Fiske  at  all,  but 


178  The  Bent  Twig 

the  queer,  countrified  "  freak  •'  assistant  in  chemistry  with 
whom  Eleanor,  since  Jerry's  defection,  had  more  or  less 
masked  her  abandonment. 

At  the  same  moment  the  two  started  guiltily  apart,  and 
Sylvia  halted,  thinking  they  had  discovered  her.  But  it  was 
Mrs.  Hubert  whom  they  had  seen,  advancing  from  the  other 
direction,  and  making  no  pretense  that  she  was  not  in 
search  of  an  absent  daughter.  She  bore  down  upon  the 
couple,  murmured  a  very  brief  greeting  to  the  man,  accom- 
panied by  a  faint  inclination  of  her  well-hatted  head,  drew 
Eleanor's  unresisting  hand  inside  her  arm,  and  walked  her 
briskly  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
MRS.  MARSHALL  STICKS  TO  HER  PRINCIPLES 

During  the  autumn  and  early  winter  it  not  only  hap- 
pened unfortunately  that  the  quartet  played  altogether  too 
much  Haydn,  but  that  Sylvia's  father,  contrary  to  his 
usual  custom,  was  away  from  home  a  great  deal.  The 
State  University  had  arrived  at  that  stage  of  its  career  when, 
if  its  rapidly  increasing  needs  and  demands  for  State  money 
were  to  be  recognized  by  the  Legislature,  it  must  knit  itself 
more  closely  to  the  rest  of  the  State  system  of  education, 
have  a  more  intimate  affiliation  with  the  widely  scattered 
public  high  schools,  and  weld  into  some  sort  of  homegeneity 
their  extremely  various  standards  of  scholarship.  This  was 
a  delicate  undertaking,  calling  for  much  tact  and  an  accurate 
knowledge  of  conditions  in  the  State,  especially  in  the  rural 
districts.  Professor  Marshall's  twenty  years  of  popularity 
with  the  more  serious  element  of  the  State  University 
students  (that  popularity  which  meant  so  little  to  Sylvia, 
and  which  she  so  ignored)  had  given  him  a  large  acquaint- 
ance among  the  class  which  it  was  necessary  to  reach.  He 
knew  the  men  who  at  the  University  had  been  the  digs, 
and  jays,  and  grinds,  and  who  were  now  the  prosperous 
farmers,  the  bankers,  the  school-trustees,  the  leading  men 
in  their  communities ;  and  his  geniality,  vivacity,  and  knack 
for  informal  public  speaking  made  him  eminently  fitted  to 
represent  the  University  in  the  somewhat  thankless  task  of 
coaxing  and  coercing  backward  communities  to  expend  the 
necessary  money  and  effort  to  bring  their  schools  up  to  the 
State  University  standard. 

If  all  this  had  happened  a  few  years  sooner,  he  undoubt- 
edly would  have  taken  Sylvia  with  him  on  many  of  these 
journeys  into  remote  corners  of  the  State,  but  Sylvia  had 

179 


180  The  Bent  Twig 

her  class-work  to  attend  to,  and  the  Professor  shared  to 
the  fullest  extent  the  academic  prejudice  against  parents 
who  broke  in  upon  the  course  of  their  children's  regular 
instruction  by  lawless  and  casual  junketings.  Instead,  it 
was  Judith  who  frequently  accompanied  him,  Judith  who 
was  now  undergoing  that  home-preparation  for  the  Uni- 
versity through  which  Sylvia  had  passed,  and  who,  since 
her  father  was  her  principal  instructor,  could  carry  on  her 
studies  wherever  he  happened  to  be;  as  well  as  have  the 
stimulating  experience  of  coming  in  contact  with  a  wide 
variety  of  people  and  conditions.  It  is  possible  that  Pro- 
fessor Marshall's  sociable  nature  not  only  shrank  from  the 
solitude  which  his  wife  would  have  endured  with  cheerful- 
ness, but  that  he  also  wished  to  take  advantage  of  this 
opportunity  to  come  in  closer  touch  with  his  second  daugh- 
ter, for  whose  self-contained  and  occasionally  insensitive 
nature  he  had  never  felt  the  instinctive  understanding  he 
had  for  Sylvia's  moods.  It  is  certain  that  the  result  v/as  a 
better  feeling  between  the  two  than  had  existed  before. 
During  the  long  hours  of  jolting  over  branch  railroads  back 
to  remote  settlements,  or  waiting  at  cheerless  junctions  for 
delayed  trains,  or  gaily  eating  impossible  meals  at  extraor- 
dinary country  hotels,  the  ruddy,  vigorous  father,  now  grow- 
ing both  gray  and  stout,  and  the  tall,  slender,  darkly  hand- 
some girl  of  fifteen,  were  cultivating  more  things  than 
history  and  mathematics  and  English  literature.  The  most 
genuine  feeling  of  comradeship  sprang  up  between  the  two 
dissimilar  natures,  a  feeling  so  strong  and  so  warm  that 
Sylvia,  in  addition  to  her  other  emotional  complications,  felt 
occasionally  a  faint  pricking  of  jealousy  at  seeing  her  pri- 
macy with  her  father  usurped. 

A  further  factor  in  her  temporary  feeling  of  alienation 
from  him  was  the  mere  physical  fact  that  she  saw  him  much 
less  frequently  and  that  he  had  nothing  like  his  usual  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  her  comings  and  goings.  And  finally, 
Lawrence,  now  a  too  rapidly  growing  and  delicate  lad  of 
eleven,  had  a  series  of  bronchial  colds  which  kept  his 
mother  much  occupied  with  his  care.    As  far  as  her  family 


Mrs.  Marshall  Sticks  to  Her  Principles      181 

was  concerned,  Sylvia  was  thus  left  more  alone  than  ever 
before,  and  although  she  had  been  trained  to  too  delicate 
and  high  a  personal  pride  to  attempt  the  least  concealment 
of  her  doings,  it  was  not  without  relief  that  she  felt  that 
her  parents  had  but  a  very  superficial  knowledge  of  the  ex- 
tent and  depth  to  which  she  was  becoming  involved  in  her 
new  relations.  She  herself  shut  her  eyes  as  much  as  possible 
to  the  rate  at  which  she  was  progressing  towards  a  destina- 
tion rapidly  becoming  more  and  more  imperiously  visible; 
and  consciously  intoxicated  herself  with  the  excitements 
and  fatigues  of  her  curiously  double  life  of  intellectual 
effort  in  classes  and  her  not  very  skilful  handling  of  the 
shining  and  very  sharp-edged  tools  of  flirtation. 

But  this  ambiguous  situation  was  suddenly  clarified  by 
the  unexpected  call  upon  Mrs.  Marshall,  one  day  about  the 
middle  of  December,  of  no  less  a  person  than  Mrs.  Jermain 
Fiske,  Sr.,  wife  of  the  Colonel,  and  Jerry's  stepmother. 
Sylvia  happened  to  be  in  her  room  when  the  shining  car 
drove  up  the  country  road  before  the  Marshall  house, 
stopped  at  the  gate  in  the  osage-orange  hedge,  and  dis- 
charged the  tall,  stooping,  handsomely  dressed  lady  in  rich 
furs,  who  came  with  a  halting  step  up  the  long  path  to  the 
front  door.  Although  Sylvia  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Fiske, 
Mrs.  Draper's  gift  for  satiric  word-painting  had  made  het 
familiar  with  some  items  of  her  appearance,  and  it  was* 
with  a  rapidly  beating  heart  that  she  surmised  the  identity 
of  the  distinguished  caller.  But  although  her  quick  intel- 
ligence perceived  the  probable  significance  of  the  appear- 
ance, and  although  she  felt  a  distinct  shock  at  the  seriousnr s» 
of  having  Jerry's  stepmother  call  upon  her,  she  was  diverted 
from  these  capital  considerations  of  such  vital  importance 
to  her  life  by  the  trivial  consideration  which  had,  so  fre- 
quently during  the  progress  of  this  affair,  absorbed  her  mind 
to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else — the  necessity  for  keep- 
ing up  appearances.  If  the  Marshall  tradition  had  made 
it  easier  for  her  to  achieve  this  not  very  elevated  goal,  she 
might  have  perceived  more  clearly  where  her  rapid  feet 
were  taking  her.    Just  now,  for  example,  there  was  nothing 


1 82  The  Bent  Twig 

in  her  consciousness  but  the  embittered  knowledge  that  there, 
was  no  maid  to  open  the  door  when  Mrs.  Fiske  should  ring, 

She  was  a  keen-witted  modern  young  woman  of  eighteen, 
with  a  well-trained  mind  stored  with  innumerable  facts  of 
science,  but  it  must  be  admitted  that  at  this  moment  she 
reverted  with  passionate  completeness  to  quite  another  type. 
She  would  have  given — she  would  have  given  a  year  of  her 
life — one  of  her  fingers — all  her  knowledge  of  history — 
anything!  if  the  Marshalls  had  possessed  what  she  felt  any 
decently  prosperous  grocer's  family  ought  to  possess — a 
well-appointed  maid  in  the  hall  to  open  the  door,  take 
Mrs.  Fiske's  card,  show  her  into  the  living-room,  and  go 
decently  and  in  order  to  summon  the  mistress  of  the  house. 
Instead  she  saw  with  envenomed  foresight  what  would  hap- 
pen. At  the  unusual  sound  of  the  bell,  her  mother,  who 
was  playing  dominoes  with  Lawrence  in  one  of  his  con- 
valescences, would  open  the  door  with  her  apron  still  on, 
and  her  spectacles  probably  pushed  up,  rustic  fashion,  on 
top  of  her  head.  And  then  their  illustrious  visitor,  used 
as  of  course  she  was  to  ceremony  in  social  matters,  would 
not  know  whether  this  was  the  maid,  or  her  hostess;  and 
Mrs.  Marshall  would  frankly  show  her  surprise  at  seeing 
a  richly  dressed  stranger  on  the  doorstep,  and  would  per- 
haps think  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  the  house;  and  Mrs. 
Fiske  would  not  know  whether  to  hand  over  the  cards  she 
held  ready  in  her  whitely  gloved  fingers — in  the  interval 
between  the  clanging  shut  of  the  gate  and  the  tinkle  of  the 
doorbell  Sylvia  endured  a  sick  reaction  against  life,  as  an 
altogether  hateful  and  horrid  affair. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  nothing  of  all  this  took  place.  When 
the  bell  rang,  her  mother  called  out  a  tranquil  request  to  her 
to  go  and  open  the  door,  and  so  it  was  Sylvia  herself  who 
confronted  the  unexpected  visitor, — Sylvia  a  little  flurriec1 
and  breathless,  but  ushering  the  guest  into  the  house  with 
her  usual  graceful  charm  of  manner. 

She  had  none  of  this  as  a  moment  later  she  went  rather 
slowly  upstairs  to  summon  her  mother.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  Mrs.  Marshall  might  very  reasonably  be  at  a  loss  a? 


Mrs.  Marshall  Sticks  to  Her  Principles     183 

to  the  reason  of  this  call.  Indeed,  she  herself  felt  a  sinking 
alarm  at  the  definiteness  of  the  demonstration.  What  could 
Mrs.  Fiske  have  to  say  to  Mrs.  Marshall  that  would  not 
lead  to  some  agitating  crystallization  of  the  dangerous  solu- 
tion which  during  the  past  months  Mrs.  Marshall's  daughter 
had  been  so  industriously  stirring  up?  Mrs.  Marshall 
showed  the  most  open  surprise  at  the  announcement,  "  Mrs. 
Colonel  Fiske  to  see  me?  What  in  the  world "  she  be- 
gan, but  after  a  glance  at  Sylvia's  down-hung  head  and 
twisting  ringers,  she  stopped  short,  looking  very  grave,  and 
rose  to  go,  with  no  more  comments. 

They  went  down  the  stairs  in  silence,  tall  mother  and 
tall  daughter,  both  sobered,  both  frightened  at  what  might 
be  in  the  other's  mind,  and  at  what  might  be  before  them, 
and  entered  the  low-ceilinged  living-room  together.  A  pale 
woman,  apparently  as  apprehensive  as  they,  rose  in  a  haste 
that  had  almost  some  element  of  apology  in  it,  and  offered 
her  hand  to  Mrs.  Marshall.  "  I'm  Mrs.  Fiske,"  she  said 
hurriedly,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Jerry's  stepmother,  you  know. 
I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  coming  to  see  you.  What  a 
perfectly  lovely  home  you  have !  I  was  wishing  I  could 
just  stay  and  stay  in  this  room."  She  spoke  rapidly  with 
the  slightly  incoherent  haste  of  shy  people  overcoming  their 
weakness,  and  glanced  alternately,  with  faded  blue  eyes,  at 
Sylvia  and  at  her  mother.  In  the  end  she  remained  stand- 
ing, looking  earnestly  into  Mrs.  Marshall's  face.  That  lady 
now  made  a  step  forward  and  again  put  out  her  hand  with 
an  impulsive  gesture  at  which  Sylvia  wondered.  She  herself 
had  felt  no  attraction  towards  the  thin,  sickly  woman  who 
had  so  little  grace  or  security  of  manner.  It  was  constantly 
surprising  Sylvia  to  discover  how  often  people  high  in  social 
rank  seemed  to  possess  no  qualifications  for  their  position. 
She  always  felt  that  she  could  have  filled  their  places  with 
vastly  more  aplomb. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall  in  a 
friendly  tone.  "  Do  sit  down  again.  Sylvia,  go  and  make 
us  some  tea,  won't  you?  Mrs.  Fiske  must  be  cold  after 
driving  out  here  from  town." 


184  The  Bent  Twig 

When  Sylvia  came  back  ten  minutes  later,  she  found  the 
guest  saying,  "  My  youngest  is  only  nine  months  old,  and 
he  is  having  such  a  time  with  his  teeth." 

"  Oh !  "  thought  Sylvia  scornfully,  pouring  out  the  tea. 
"  She's  that  kind  of  a  woman,  is  she  ?  "  With  the  astonish- 
ingly quick  shifting  of  viewpoint  of  the  young,  she  no  longer 
felt  the  least  anxiety  that  her  home,  or  even  that  she  her- 
self should  make  a  good  impression  on  this  evidently  quite 
negligible  person.  Her  anguish  about  the  ceremony  of 
opening  the  door  seemed  years  behind  her.  She  examined 
with  care  all  the  minutiae  of  the  handsome,  unindivid- 
ualized  costume  of  black  velvet  worn  by  their  visitor, 
but  turned  an  absent  ear  to  her  talk,  which  brought  out 
various  facts  relating  to  a  numerous  family  of  young  chil- 
dren. "  I  have  six  living,"  said  Mrs.  Fiske,  not  meeting 
Mrs.  Marshall's  eyes  as  she  spoke,  and  stirring  her  tea 
slowly,  "  I  lost  four  at  birth." 

Sylvia  was  indeed  slightly  interested  to  learn  through 
another  turn  of  the  conversation  that  the  caller,  who  looked 
to  her  unsympathetic  eyes  any  age  at  all,  had  been  married 
at  eighteen,  and  that  that  was  only  thirteen  years  ago. 
Sylvia  thought  she  certainly  looked  older  than  thirty-one, 
advanced  though  that  age  was. 

The  call  passed  with  no  noteworthy  incidents  beyond  a 
growing  wonder  in  Sylvia's  mind  that  the  brilliant  and 
dashing  old  Colonel,  after  his  other  matrimonial  experi- 
ences, should  have  picked  out  so  dull  and  colorless  a  wife. 
She  was  not  even  pretty,  not  at  all  pretty,  in  spite  of  her 
delicate,  regular  features  and  tall  figure.  Her  hair  was  dry 
and  thin,  her  eyes  lusterless,  her  complexion  thick,  with 
brown  patches  on  it,  and  her  conversation  was  of  a  domes- 
ticity unparalleled  in  Sylvia's  experience.  She  seemed 
oddly  drawn  to  Mrs.  Marshall,  although  that  lady  was  now 
looking  rather  graver  than  was  her  wont,  and  talked  to  her 
of  the  overflowing  Fiske  nursery  with  a  loquacity  which  was 
evidently  not  her  usual  habit.  Indeed,  she  said  naively,  as 
she  went  away,  that  she  had  been  much  relieved  to  find  Mrs. 
Marshall  so  approachable.     "  One  always  thinks  of  Uni 


Mrs.  Marshall  Sticks  to  Her  Principles      185 

versity  families  as  so  terribly  learned,  you  know,"  she  said, 
imputing  to  her  hostess,  with  a  child's  tactlessness,  an 
absence  of  learning  like  her  own.  "  1  really  dreaded  to 
come — I  go  out  so  little,  you  know — but  Jerry  and  the 
Colonel  thought  I  ought,  you  know — and  now  I've  really 
enjoyed  it — and  if  Miss  Marshall  will  come,  Jerry  and  the 
Colonel  will  be  quite  satisfied.  And  so,  of  course,  will  I." 
With  which  rather  jerky  valedictory  she  finally  got  herself 
out  of  the  house. 

Sylvia  looked  at  her  mother  inquiringly.  "  If  I  go 
where  ? "  she  asked.  Something  must  have  taken  place 
while  she  was  out  of  the  room  getting  the  tea. 

"  She  called  to  invite  you  formally  to  a  Christmas  house- 
party  at  the  Fiskes'  place  in  Mercerton,"  said  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, noting  smilelessly  Sylvia's  quick  delight  at  the  news. 
"Oh,  what  have  I  got  to  wear!"  cried  the  girl.  Mrs. 
Marshall  said  merely,  "  We'll  see,  we'll  see,"  and  without 
discussing  the  matter  further,  went  back  to  finish  the  inter- 
rupted game  with  Lawrence.    £ 

But  the  next  evening,  when  Professor  Marshall  returned 
from  his  latest  trip,  the  subject  was  taken  up  in  a  talk 
between  Sylvia  and  her  parents  which  was  more  agitating 
to  them  all  than  any  other  incident  in  their  common  life, 
although  it  was  conducted  with  a  great  effort  for  self- 
control  on  all  sides.  Judith  and  Lawrence  had  gone  up- 
stairs to  do  their  lessons,  and  Professor  Marshall  at  once 
broached  the  subject  by  saying  with  considerable  hesita- 
tion, "  Svlvia — well — how  about  this  house-party  at  the 
Fiskes'?" 

Sylvia  was  on  the  defense  in  a  moment.  "  Well,  how 
about  it?"  she  repeated. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  feel  like  going." 

"  But  I  do,  very  much !  "  returned  Sylvia,  tingling  at  the 
first  clear  striking  of  the  note  of  disapproval  she  had  felt 
for  so  many  weeks  like  an  undertone  in  her  life.  As  her 
father  said  nothing  more,  biting  his  nails  and  looking  at 
her  uncertainly,  she  added  in  the  accent  which  fitted  the 
words,  "  Why  shouldn't  L?  " 


1 86  The  Bent  Twig 

He  took  a  turn  about  the  room  and  glanced  at  his  wife, 
who  was  hemming  a  napkin  very  rapidly,  her  hands  trem- 
bling a  little.  She  looked  up  at  him  warningly,  and  he 
waited  an  instant  before  speaking.  Finally  he  brought  out 
with  the  guarded  tone  of  one  forcing  himself  to  moderation 
of  speech,  "  Well,  the  Colonel  is  an  abominable  old  black- 
guard in  public  life,  and  his  private  reputation  is  no 
better." 

Sylvia  flushed.  "  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with 
his  son.  It's  not  fair  to  judge  a  young  man  by  his  father — 
or  by  anything  but  what  he  is  himself — you  yourself  are 
always  saying  that,  if  the  trouble  is  that  the  father  is  poor 
or  ignorant  or  something  else  tiresome." 

Professor  Marshall  said  cautiously,  "  From  what  I  hear, 
I  gather  that  the  son  in  this  case  is  a  good  deal  like  his 
father." 

"  No,  he  isn't! "  cried  Sylvia  quickly.  "  He  may  have 
been  wild  when  he  first  came  up  to  the  University,  but  he's 
all  right  now !  "  She  spoke  as  with  authoritative  and  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  all  the  details  of  Fiske,  Jr.'s,  life.  "  And 
anyhow,  I  don't  see  what  difference  it  makes,  what  the 
Colonel's  reputation  is.  I'm  just  going  up  there  with  a 
lot  of  other  young  people  to  have  a  good  time.  Eleanor 
Hubert's  invited,  and  three  or  four  other  society  girls.  I 
don't  see  why  we  need  to  be  such  a  lot  more  particular  than 
other  people.  We  never  are  when  it's  a  question  of  people 
being  dirty,  or  horrid,  other  ways !  How  about  Cousin 
Parnelia  and  Mr.  Reinhardt?  I  guess  the  Fiskes  would 
laugh  at  the  idea  of  people  who  have  as  many  queer  folks 
around  as  we  do,  thinking  they  aren't  good  enough." 

Professor  Marshall  sat  down  across  the  table  from  his 
daughter  and  looked  at  her.  His  face  was  rather  ruddier 
than  usual  and  he  swallowed  hard.  "  Why,  Sylvia,  the  point 
is  this.  It's  evident,  from  what  your  mother  tells  me  of 
Mrs.  Fiske's  visit,  that  going  to  this  house  party  means 
more  in  your  case  than  with  the  other  girls.  Mrs.  Fiske 
came  all  the  way  to  La  Chance  to  invite  you,  and  from 
what  she  said  about  you  and  her  stepson,  it  was  evident 


Mrs.  Marshall  Sticks  to  Her  Principles      187 

that  she  and  the  Colonel "     He  stopped,  opening  his 

hands  nervously. 

"  I  don't  know  how  they  think  they  know  anything  about 
it,"  returned  Sylvia  with  dignity,  though  she  felt  an  inward 
qualm  at  this  news.  "  Jerry's  been  ever  so  nice  to  me  and 
given  me  a  splendid  time,  but  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  Lots 
of  fellows  do  that  for  lots  of  girls,  and  nobody  makes  such  a 
fuss  about  it." 

Mrs.  Marshall  laid  down  her  work  and  went  to  the  heart 
of  the  matter.    "  Sylvia,  you  don't  like  Mr.  Fiske?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do !  "  said  Sylvia  defiantly,  qualifying  this  state- 
ment an  instant  later  by,  "  Quite  well,  anyhow.  Why 
shouldn't  I?" 

Her  mother  assumed  this  rhetorical  question  to  be  a 
genuine  one  and  answered  it  accordingly.  "  Why,  he  doesn't 
seem  at  all  like  the  type  of  young  man  who  would  be  liked 
by  a  girl  with  your  tastes  and  training.  I  shouldn't  think 
you'd  find  him  interesting  or " 

Sylvia  broke  out :  "  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  sick  I  get 
of  being  so  everlastingly  high-brow!  What's  the  use  of 
it?  People  don't  think  any  more  of  you !  They  think  less ! 
You  don't  have  any  better  time — nor  so  good!  And  why 
should  you  and  Father  always  be  so  down  on  anybody  that's 
rich,  or  dresses  decently?  Jerry's  all  right — if  his  clothes 
do  fit!" 

"  Do  you  really  know  him  at  all  ? "  asked  her  father 
pointedly. 

"  Of  course  I  do — I  know  he's  very  handsome,  and 
awfully  good-natured,  and  he's  given  me  the  only  good 
time  I've  had  at  the  University.  You  just  don't  know  how 
ghastly  last  year  was  to  me !  I'm  awfully  grateful  to  Jerry, 
and  that's  all  there  is  to  it ! " 

Before  this  second  disclaimer,  her  parents  were  silent 
again,  Sylvia  looking  down  at  her  lap,  picking  at  her  fingers. 
Her  expression  was  that  of  a  naughty  child — that  is,  with 
a  considerable  admixture  of  unhappiness  in  her  wilfulness. 

By  this  time  Professor  Marshall's  expression  was  clearly 
one  of  downright  anger,  controlled  by  violent  effort.    Mrs,, 


1 88  The  Bent  Twig 

Marshall  was  the  first  one  to  speak.  She  went  over  to 
Sylvia  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder.     "  Well,  Sylvia 

dear,  I'm  sorry  about "    She  stopped  and  began  again. 

"You  know,  dear,  that  we  always  believed  in  letting  our 
children,  as  far  as  possible,  make  their  own  decisions,  and 
we  won't  go  back  on  that  now.  But  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand that  that  puts  a  bigger  responsibility  on  you  than  on 
most  girls  to  make  the  right  decisions.  We  trust  you — your 
good  sense  and  right  feeling — to  keep  you  from  being 
carried  away  by  unworthy  motives  into  a  false  position. 
And,  what's  just  as  important,  we  trust  to  your  being  clear- 
headed enough  to  see  what  your  motives  really  are." 

"  I  don't  see,"  began  Sylvia,  half  crying,  "  why  some- 
thing horrid  should  come  up  just  because  I  want  a  good 
time — other  girls  don't  have  to  be  all  the  time  so  solemn, 
and  thinking  about  things !  " 

"  There'd  be  more  happy  women  if  they  did,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Marshall,  adding :  "  I  don't  believe  we'd  better  talk 
any  more  about  this  now.  You  know  how  we  feel,  and 
you  must  take  that  into  consideration.  You  think  it 
over." 

She  spoke  apparently  with  her  usual  calmness,  but  as  she 
finished  she  put  her  arms  about  the  girl's  neck  and  kissed 
the  flushed  cheeks.  Caresses  from  Mrs.  Marshall  were 
unusual,  and,  even  through  her  tense  effort  to  resist,  Sylvia 
was  touched.  "  You're  just  worrying  about  nothing  at 
all,  Mother,"  she  said,  trying  to  speak  lightly,  but  escaped 
from  a  possible  rejoinder  by  hurriedly  gathering  up  her 
text-books  and  following  Judith  and  Lawrence  upstairs. 

Her  father  and  mother  confronted  each  other.  "  Well!  " 
said  Professor  Marshall  hotly,  "  of  all  the  weak,  incon- 
clusive, modern  parents — is  this  what  we've  come  to  ?  " 

Mrs.  Marshall  took  up  her  sewing  and  said  in  the  tone 
which  always  quelled  her  husband,  "  Yes,  this  is  what  we've 
come  to." 

His  heat  abated  at  once,  though  he  weiit  on  combatively, 
"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean,  reasonable  authority  and  not 
tyranny  and  all  that — yes,  I  believe  in  it — of  course — but 


Mrs.  Marshall  Sticks  to  Her  Principles     189 

this  goes  beyond "  he  ended.    "  Is  there  or  is  there  not 

such  a  thing  as  parental  authority  ?  " 

Mrs.  Marshall  answered  with  apparent  irrelevance,  "  You 
remember  what  Cavour  said?" 

Good  Heaven !  No,  I  don't  remember ! "  cried  Pro- 
fessor Marshall,  with  an  impatience  which  might  have  been 
Sylvia's. 

"  He  said,  '  Any  idiot  can  rule  by  martial  law/  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  that  theory  is  all  right,  but " 

"  If  a  theory  is  all  right,  it  ought  to  be  acted  upon." 

Professor  Marshall  cried  out  in  exasperation,  "  But  see 
here,  Barbara — here  is  a  concrete  fact — our  daughter — our 
precious  Sylvia — is  making  a  horrible  mistake — and  because 
of  a  theory  we  mustn't  reach  out  a  hand  to  pull  her  back." 

"  We  can't  pull  her  back  by  force,"  said  his  wife.  "  She's 
eighteen  years  old,  and  she  has  the  habit  of  independent 
thought.    We  can't  go  back  on  that  now." 

"  We  don't  seem  to  be  pulling  her  back  by  force  or  in 
any  other  way !  We  seem  to  be  just  weakly  sitting  back  and 
letting  her  do  exactly  as  she  pleases." 

"  If  during  all  these  years  we've  had  her  under  our  in- 
fluence we  haven't  given  her  standards  that "  began  the 

mother. 

"  You  heard  how  utterly  she  repudiated  our  influence  and 
our  standards  and " 

"  Oh,  what  she  says — it's  what  she's  made  of  that'll 
count — that's  the  only  thing  that'll  count  when  a  crisis 
comes " 

Professor  Marshall  interrupted  hastily :  "  When  a  crisis  f 
What  do  you  call  this  but  a  crisis — she's  like  a  child  about 
to  put  her  hand  into  the  fire." 

"  I  trust  in  the  training  she's  had  to  give  her  firm  enough 
nerves  to  pull  it  out  again  when  she  feels  the  heat,"  said 
her  mother  steadily. 

Professor  Marshall  sprang  up,  with  clenched  hands,  tall, 
powerful,  helpless.  "  It's  outrageous,  Barbara,  for  all  your 
talk !  We're  responsible !  We  ought  to  shut  her  up  under 
lock  and  key " 


190  The  Bent  Twig 

"  So  many  girls  have  been  deterred  from  a  mistake  by 
being  shut  up  under  lock  and  key !  "  commented  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, with  an  ironical  accent. 

"  But,  good  Heavens !  Think  of  her  going  to  that  old 
scoundrel's — how  can  I  look  people  in  the  face,  when  they 
all  know  my  opinion  of  him — how  I've  opposed  his  being  a 
Trustee  and " 

"  Ah, !  "    remarked    his    wife    significantly,    "  that's 

the  trouble,  is  it?" 

Professor  Marshall  flushed,  and  for  a  moment  made  no 
rejoinder.  Then,  shifting  his  ground,  he  said  bitterly :  "  I 
think  you're  forgetting  that  I've  had  a  disillusionizing  ex- 
perience in  this  sort  of  thing  which  you  were  spared.  You 
forget  that  Sylvia  is  closely  related  to  my  sister." 

"  I  don't  forget  that — but  I  don't  forget  either  that  Sylvia 
has  had  a  very  different  sort  of  early  life  from  poor  Vic- 
toria's. She  has  breathed  pure  air  always — I  trust  her  to 
recognize  its  opposite." 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture  of  exasperation.  "  But 
she'll  be  in  it— it'll  be  too  late " 

"  It's  never  too  late."  She  spoke  quickly,  but  her  un- 
wavering opposition  began  to  have  in  it  a  note  of  tension. 

"  She'll  be  caught — she'll  have  to  go  on  because  it'll  be 
too  hard  to  get  out •" 

"  The  same  vigor  that  makes  her  resist  us  now  will  give 
her  strength  then — she's  not  Eleanor  Hubert." 

Her  husband  burst  out  upon  her  in  a  frightened,  angry 
rush  of  reproach  :  "  Barbara — how  can  you !  You  make  me 
turn  cold !  This  isn't  a  matter  of  talk — of  theories — we're 
confronted  with " 

She  faced  him  down  with  unflinching,  unhappy  eyes. 
"  Oh,  of  course  if  we  are  to  believe  in  liberty  only  so  long 
as  everything  goes  smoothly "  She  tried  to  add  some- 
thing to  this,  but  her  voice  broke  and  she  was  silent.  Her 
husband  looked  at  her,  startled  at  her  pallor  and  her 
trembling  lips,  immensely  moved  by  the  rare  discomposure 
of  that  countenance.  She  said  in  a  whisper,  her  voice 
shaking,  "  Our  little  Sylvia — my  first  baby " 


Mrs.  Marshall  Sticks  to  Her  Principles      191 

He  flung  himself  down  in  the  chair  beside  her  and  took 
her  hand.    "  It's  damnable  !  "  he  said. 

His  wife  answered  slowly,  with  long  pauses.  "  No — it's 
all  right — it's  part  of  the  whole  thing — of  life.  When  you 
bring  children  into  the  world — when  you  live  at  all — you 
must  accept  the  whole.  It's  not  fair  to  rebel — to  rebel  at  the 
pain — when " 

"  Good  God,  it's  not  our  pain  I'm  shrinking  from !  " 

he  broke  out. 

"  No — oh  no — that  would  be  easy " 

With  an  impulse  of  yearning,  and  protection,  and  need,  he 
leaned  to  put  his  arms  around  her,  his  graying  beard  against 
her  pale  cheek.    They  sat  silent  for  a  long  time. 

In  the  room  above  them,  Sylvia  bent  over  a  problem  in 
trigonometry,  and  rapidly  planned  a  new  evening-dress. 
After  a  time  she  got  up  and  opened  her  box  of  treasures 
from  Aunt  Victoria.  The  yellow  chiffon  would  do — Jerry 
had  said  he  liked  yellow — she  could  imagine  how  Mrs. 
Hubert  would  expend  herself  on  Eleanor's  toilets  for  this 
great  occasion — if  she  could  only  hit  on  a  design  which 
wouldn't  look  as  though  it  came  out  of  a  woman's  maga- 
zine— something  really  sophisticated — she  could  cover  her 
old  white  slippers  with  that  bit  of  gold-tissue  off  Aunt 
Victoria's  hat — she  shook  out  the  chiffon  and  laid  it  over 
the  bed,  looking  intently  at  its  gleaming,  shimmering  folds 
and  thinking,  "  How  horrid  of  Father  and  Mother  to  go 
and  try  to  spoil  everything  so ! "  She  went  back  to  the 
problem  in  trigonometry  and  covered  a  page  with  figures, 
at  which  she  gazed  unseeingly.  She  was  by  no  means  happy. 
She  went  as  far  as  the  door,  meaning  to  go  down  and  kiss 
her  parents  good-night,  but  turned  back.  They  were  not  a 
family  for  surface  demonstrations.  If  she  could  not  yield 
her  point —  She  began  to  undress  rapidly,  turned  out  the 
light,  opened  the  windows,  and  sprang  into  bed.  "  If  they 
only  wouldn't  take  things  so  awfully  solemnly!"  she  said 
to  herself  petulantly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
SYLVIA  SKATES  MERRILY  ON  THIN  ICE 

The  design  for  the  yellow  chiffon  dropped  almost  lit- 
«rally  at  Sylvia's  feet  the  next  day,  on  the  frontispiece  of 
a  theatrical  magazine  left  by  another  passenger  in  the  street- 
car in  which  she  chanced  to  be  riding.  Sylvia  pounced  on 
it  with  instant  recognition  of  its  value.  It  was  "  different " 
and  yet  not  "  queer,"  it  was  artistic  and  yet  fashionable, 
and  with  its  flowing  lines  it  would  not  be  hard  to  construct. 
It  was  the  creation  of  a  Parisian  boulevard  actress,  known 
widely  for  her  costumes,  for  the  extraordinary  manner  in 
which  she  dressed  her  hair,  and  for  the  rapidity  of  her 
succeeding  emotional  entanglements.  Her  name  m^ant 
nothing  to  Sylvia.  She  tore  out  the  page,  folded  it,  and  pu* 
it  for  safe-keeping  between  the  pages  of  her  text-book  o? 
Logic. 

That  afternoon  she  began  work  on  it,  running  the  long 
seams  up  on  the  machine  with  whirring  rapidity,  acutely 
aware  of  her  mother's  silent,  uncommenting  passage  back 
and  forth  through  the  sewing-room.  With  an  impulse  of 
secrecy  which  she  did  not  analyze,  she  did  the  trying-on 
in  her  own  room,  craning  and  turning  about  before  her 
own  small  mirror.  She  knew  that  her  mother  would  think 
the  dress  was  cut  too  low,  although,  as  she  told  herself, 
looking  with  complacency  at  the  smooth,  white,  exquisitely 
fine-grained  skin  thus  disclosed,  it  wasn't  nearly  as  low  cut. 
as  the  dresses  Eleanor  Hubert  wore  to  any  little  dance. 
She  had  long  felt  it  to  be  countrified  in  the  extreme  to 
wear  the  mild  compromises  towards  evening-dress  which 
she  and  most  of  the  State  University  girls  adopted,  as 
compared  with  the  frankly  disclosing  gowns  of  the  "  town 
girls  "  whose  clothes  came  from  Chicago  and  New  York. 

192 


Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice       193 

She  knew  from  several  outspoken  comments  that  Jerry 
admired  Eleanor's  shoulders,  and  as  she  looked  at  her 
own,  she  was  not  sorry  that  he  was  to  compare  them  to 
those  of  the  other  girl. 

After  this  brief  disposal  of  the  question,  she  gave  it  no 
more  thought,  working  with  desperate  speed  to  complete 
all  her  preparations.  She  had  but  a  week  for  these,  a 
week  filled  with  incessant  hurry,  since  she  was  naturally 
unwilling  to  ask  help  of  her  mother.  Judith  was  off  again 
with  her  father. 

This  absence  greatly  facilitated  the  moment  of  Sylvia's 
departure,  which  she  had  dreaded.  But,  as  it  happened, 
there  was  only  her  mother  to  whom  to  say  the  rather 
difficult  good-bye,  her  mother  who  could  be  counted  on 
never  to  make  a  scene. 

About  the  middle  of  the  morning  of  the  twenty-third 
of  December,  she  came  down  the  stairs,  her  hand-bag  in 
her  hand,  well-hatted,  well-gloved,  freshly  veiled,  having 
achieved  her  usual  purpose  of  looking  to  the  casual  eye  like 
the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  man.  She  had  put  all  of  her 
autumn  allowance  for  dress  into  a  set  of  furs,  those  being 
something  which  no  ingenuity  could  evolve  at  home.  The 
rest  of  her  outfit,  even  to  the  odd  little  scarlet  velvet  hat, 
with  its  successful  and  modish  touch  of  the  ugly,  was  the 
achievement  of  her  own  hands.  Under  its  absurd  and 
fashionable  brim,  her  fresh  face  shone  out,  excessively 
pretty  and  very  young. 

Mrs.  Marshall  kissed  her  good-bye  gently,  not  smiling  at 
Sylvia's  attempt  to  lighten  the  moment's  seriousness  by 
saying  playfully,  "  Now,  Mother,  don't  you  be  such  an  old 
worrier !  "  But  she  said  nothing  "  uncomfortable,"  for 
which  Sylvia  was  very  grateful. 

She  had  no  sooner  embarked  upon  the  big  Interurban 
trolley-car  which  was  to  take  her  to  Mercerton  than  her 
attention  was  wholly  diverted  from  uneasy  reflections  by 
the  unexpected  appearance  of  two  of  the  house-party 
guests.  Eleanor  Hubert,  every  detail  of  her  complicated 
costume  exquisitely  finished  as  a  Meissonier  painting,  sat 


194  The  Bent  Twig 

looking  out  of  the  window  rather  soberly,  and  so  intently 
that  she  saw  neither  Sylvia's  entrance,  nor,  close  upon  her 
heels,  that  of  a  florid- faced,  rather  heavily  built  young 
man  with  a  large,  closely  shaven  jaw,  who  exclaimed  joy- 
fully at  seeing  Miss  Marshall,  and  appropriated  with  ready 
assurance  the  other  half  of  her  seat. 

"  Now,  this  is  surely  dandy !  You're  going  to  the  house- 
party  too,  of  course ! "  he  cried,  unbuttoning  and  throwing 
back  his  bright  tan  overcoat.  "  Here's  where  I  cut  Jerry 
out  all  right,  all  right !  Wait  a  minute !  How  much  time 
have  we?"  He  appealed  to  the  conductor  as  though  a 
matter  of  life  and  death  depended  on  the  answer.     "  Four 

minutes? — here  goes "     He  sprang  to  his  feet,  dashed 

out  of  the  car  and  disappeared,  leaving  his  coat  beside 
Sylvia.  It  was  evidently  quite  new,  of  the  finest  material, 
with  various  cunningly  stitched  seams  and  straps  disposed 
upon  its  surface  in  a  very  knowing  way.  Sylvia  noted  out 
of  the  corner  of  her  eye  that  the  address  of  the  maker, 
woven  into  the  neckband,  was  on  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 

The  four  minutes  passed — and  the  conductor  approached 
Sylvia.  "  Your  friend's  coming  back,  ain't  he  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  the  tolerant,  good-natured  respect  natural  for  the 
vagaries  of  expensively  dressed  young  men  who  wore 
overcoats  made  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Sylvia,  who  had  met 
the  young  man  but  once  before,  when  Jerry  had  introduced 
him  as  an  old  friend,  was  a  little  startled  at  having  a  casual 
acquaintance  so  publicly  affixed  to  her;  but  after  an  in- 
stant's hesitation,  in  which  she  was  reflecting  that  she 
positively  did  not  even  remember  her  "  friend's  "  name,  she 
answered,  "  Oh  yes,  yes,  I  suppose  so — here  he  is  now." 

The  young  man  bounded  up  on  the  back  platform  panting, 
holding  his  hat  on  with  one  hand,  a  large  box  of  candy  in 
the  other.  Sylvia  glanced  at  the  name  on  the  cover.  "  You 
didn't  go  all  the  way  to  Dutton's! "  she  cried. 

He  nodded,  breathless,  evidently  proud  of  his  feat,  and 
when  he  caught  his  breath  enough  to  speak,  explained, 
*'  Yepp, — it's  the  only  place  in  this  bum  town  where  you 
can  get  Alligretti's,  and  they're  the  only  kind  that  're  fit  to 


Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice      195 

eat."  He  tore  open  the  box  as  he  spoke,  demolishing  with 
ruthless  and  practised  hands  the  various  layers  of  fine 
paper  and  gold  cord  which  wrapped  it  about,  and  presented 
the  rich  layer  of  black  chocolates  to  Sylvia.  "  Get  a  move 
on  and  take  one,"  he  urged  cordially ;  "  I  pretend  I  buy 
'em  for  the  girls,  but  I'm  crazy  about  'em  myself."  He 
bit  into  one  with  an  air  of  prodigious  gusto,  took  off  his 
hat,  wiped  his  forehead,  and  looked  at  Sylvia  with  a  relish 
as  frank  as  his  enjoyment  of  the  bonbon.  "That's  a  cork- 
ing hat  you  got  on,"  he  commented.  "  Most  girls  would 
look  like  the  old  Harry  with  that  dangling  thing  in  their 
eyes,  but  you  can  carry  it  off  all  right." 

Sylvia's  face  assumed  a  provocative  expression.  "  Did 
you  ever  make  that  remark  to  any  other  girl,  I  wonder  ?  " 
she  said  reflectively. 

He  laughed  aloud,  eying  her  with  appreciation,  and  clap- 
ping another  large  black  chocolate  into  v-his  mouth.  "  You're 
the  prompt  article,  aren't  you  ?  "  he  said.  He  hitched  him- 
self over  and  leaned  towards  her.  "  Something  tells  me  I'm 
goin'  to  have  a  good  time  at  this  house-party,  what  ?  " 

Sylvia  stiffened.  She  did  not  like  his  sitting  so  close  to 
her,  she  detected  now  on  his  breath  a  faint  odor  of  alcohol, 
and  she  was  afraid  that  Eleanor  Hubert  would  think  her 
lacking  in  dignity.  She  regretted  having  succumbed  to  the 
temptation  to  answer  him  in  his  own  tone;  but,  under  her 
bravado,  she  was  really  somewhat  apprehensive  about  this 
expedition,  and  she  welcomed  a  diversion.  Besides,  the 
voluble  young  man  showed  not  the  slightest  sign  of  noting 
her  attempt  to  rebuff  him,  and  she  found  quite  unavailing 
all  her  efforts  to  change  the  current  of  the  talk,  the  loud, 
free-and-easy,  personally  admiring  note  of  which  had  the 
effect  on  her  nerves  of  a  draught  of  raw  spirits.  She  did 
not  enjoy  the  taste  while  it  was  being  administered,  but  the 
effect  was  certainly  stimulating,  not  to  say  exciting,  and 
absorbed  her  attention  so  entirely  that  uncomfortable  self- 
questionings  were  impossible.  She  was  also  relieved  to  note 
that,  although  the  young  man  flung  himself  about  in  the 
public    conveyance    with    the    same    unceremonious    self- 


196  The  Bent  Twig 

assurance  that  he  would  have  shown  in  a  lady's  drawing- 
room,  Eleanor  Hubert,  at  the  other  end  of  the  car,  was 
apparently  unaware  of  his  presence.  Perhaps  she  too  had 
some  grounds  for  uncomfortable  thought,  for  through- 
out the  hour's  journey  she  continued  to  stare  unseeingly 
out  of  the  window,  or  to  look  down  fixedly  and  rather  sadly 
at  her  gloved  hands. 

Even  through  the  confusion  of  her  own  ideas  and  plans, 
and  the  need  for  constant  verbal  self-defense  against  the 
encroaching  familiarity  of  her  companion,  the,  notion  flitted 
across  Sylvia's  mind  that  probably  Eleanor  was  thinking  of 
the  young  assistant  in  chemistry.  How  queer  and  topsy- 
turvy everything  was,  she  reflected,  as  she  bandied  lively 
words  with  the  lively  young  man  at  her  side,  continuing  to 
eat  his  candies,  although  their  rich,  cloying  taste  had  al- 
ready palled  on  her  palate — here  was  Mrs.  Hubert  throw- 
ing Eleanor  at  Jerry's  head,  when  what  Eleanor  wanted 
was  that  queer,  rough-neck  freak  of  an  assistant  prof ;  and 
here  were  Jerry's  parents  making  such  overtures  to  Sylvia, 
when  what  she  wanted — she  didn't  know  what  she  did 
want.  Yes,  she  did,  she  wanted  a  good  time,  which  was 
somehow  paradoxically  hard  to  attain.  Something  always 
kept  spoiling  it, — half  the  time  something  intangible  inside 
her  own  mind.  She  gave  the  candy-box  a  petulant  push. 
'*  Oh,  take  it  away !  "  she  said  impatiently ;  "  I've  eaten  so 
many  now,  it  makes  me  sick  to  look  at  them !  " 

The  donor  showed  no  resentment  at  this  ingratitude, 
holding  the  box  on  his  knees,  continuing  to  help  himself 
to  its  contents  with  unabated  zest,  and  to  keep  the  conver- 
sation up  to  concert  pitch :  " the  only  girl  I  ever  saw 

who'd  stop  eating  Alligretti's  while  there  was  one  left — 
another  proof  that  there's  only  one  of  you — I  said  right  off, 
that  any  co-ed  that  Jerry  Fiske  would  take  to  must  be  a 

unique   specimen "     He    did   not   further   specify   ths 

period  to  which  he  referred  by  his  "  right  off,"  but  the 
phrase  gave  Sylvia  a  tingling,  uncomfortable  sense  of  having 
been  for  some  time  the  subject  of  speculation  in  circles  of 
which  she  knew  nothing. 


Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice      197 

They  were  near  Mercerton  now,  and  as  she  gathered  her 
wraps  together  she  found  that  she  was  bracing  herself  as 
for  an  ordeal  of  some  sort.  The  big  car  stopped,  a  little 
way  out  of  town,  in  front  of  a  long  driveway  bordered 
with  maple-trees;  she  and  the  young  man  descended  from 
one  end-platform  and  Eleanor  Hubert  from  the  other,  into 
the  midst  of  loud  and  facetious  greetings  from  the  young 
people  who  had  come  down  to  meet  them.  Jerry  was  there, 
very  stalwart,  his  white  sweater  stretched  over  his  broad 
chest.  All  the  party  carried  skates,  which  flashed  like 
silver  in  the  keen  winter  sun.  They  explained  with  many 
exclamations  that  they  had  been  out  on  the  ice,  which  was, 
so  the  three  new-comers  were  assured  many  times,  "  per- 
fectly grand,  perfectly  dandy,  simply  elegant !  " 

A  big,  many-seated  sled  came  jingling  down  the  driveway 
now,  driven  by  no  less  a  personage  than  Colonel  Fiske  him- 
self, wrapped  in  a  fur-lined  coat,  his  big  mustache  white 
against  the  red  of  his  strongly  marked  old  face.  With 
many  screams  and  shouts  the  young  people  got  themselves 
into  this  vehicle,  the  Colonel  calling  out  in  a  masterful 
roar  above  the  din,  "  Miss  Marshall's  to  come  up  here 
with  me !  " 

He  held  in  his  pawing,  excited  horses  with  one  hand 
and  helped  Sylvia  with  the  other.  In  the  seat  behind  them 
sat  Jerry  and  Eleanor  Hubert  and  the  young  man  of  the 
trolley  trip.  Sylvia  strained  her  ears  to  catch  Jerry's  intro- 
duction of  him  to  Eleanor,  so  that  she  might  know  his 
name.  It  was  too  absurd  not  even  to  know  his  name! 
But  the  high-pitched  giggles  and  deeper  shouts  of  mirth 
from  the  rest  of  the  party  drowned  out  the  words.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  although  he  played  for  an  instant  a  rather 
important  role  in  Sylvia's  drama,  she  was  destined  never  to 
know  his  name. 

The  Colonel  looked  back  over  the  sleighload,  shouted 
out  "  All  aboard ! "  loosened  the  reins,  and  snapped  his 
whip  over  the  horses'  heads.  They  leaped  forward  with 
so  violent  a  spring  that  the  front  runners  of  the  long  sled 
were  for  an  instant  lifted  into  the  air.    Immediately  all  the 


198  The  Bent  Twig 

joyful  shrieking  and  screaming  which  had  gone  on  before, 
became  as  essential  silence  compared  to  the  delighted  up- 
roar which  now  rose  from  the  sleigh.  The  jerk  had  thrown 
most  of  the  young  people  over  backward  into  each  other's 
arms  and  laps,  where,  in  a  writhing,  promiscuous  mass,  they 
roared  and  squealed  out  their  joy  in  the  joke,  and  made 
ineffectual  and  not  very  determined  efforts  to  extricate 
themselves.  Sylvia  had  seen  the  jerk  coming  and  saved 
herself  by  a  clutch  forward  at  the  dashboard.  Glancing 
back,  she  saw  that  Jerry  and  Eleanor  Hubert  still  sat  up- 
right; although  the  gay  young  man  beside  them  had  let 
himself  go  backward  into  the  waving  arms  and  legs,  and, 
in  a  frenzy  of  high  spirits,  was  shouting  and  kicking  and 
squirming  with  the  others.  It  was  a  joke  after  his  own 
heart. 

Colonel  Fiske,  so  far  from  slackening  his  pace  to  help 
his  young  guests  out  of  their  predicament,  laughed  loudly 
and  cracked  his  whip  over  the  horses'  ears.  They  went  up 
the  long,  curving  driveway  like  a  whirlwind,  and  drew  up 
under  the  porte-cochere  of  a  very  large  brick-and-stone 
house  with  another  abrupt  jerk  which  upset  those  in  the 
sleigh  who  had  succeeded  in  regaining  their  seats.  Pande- 
monium broke  out  again,  in  the  midst  of  which  Sylvia  saw 
that  Mrs.  Fiske  had  come  to  the  doorway  and  stood  in  it 
with  a  timid  smile.  The  Colonel  did  not  look  at  her,  Jerry 
nodded  carelessly  to  her  as  he  passed  in,  and  of  all  the 
disheveled,  flushed,  and  laughing  young  people  who 
crowded  past  her  into  the  house,  only  Sylvia  and  Eleanor 
recognized  her  existence.  The  others  went  past  her  with- 
out a  glance,  exclaimed  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  cried 
out  that  they  must  go  and  "  fix  up  "  for  lunch,  and  ran 
upstairs,  filling  the  house  with  their  voices.  Sylvia  heard 
one  girl  cry  to  another,  u  Oh,  I've  had  such  a  good  time ! 
I've  hollered  till  I'm  hoarse ! " 

After  luncheon,  a  meal  at  which  more  costly  food  was 
served  than  Sylvia  had  ever  before  seen,  Jerry  suggested 
between  puffs  of  the  cigarette  he  was  lighting  that  they  have 
a  game  of  billiards.    Most  of  the  young  people  trooped  off 


Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice      199 

after  him  into  the  billiard-roc  n,  but  Sylvia,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  lingered  ne^'  the  big  wood-fire  in  the 
hall,  unwilling  to  admit  that  she  had  never  seen  a  bil- 
liard table.  She  made  a  pretext  of  staying  to  talk  to 
Mrs.  Fiske,  who  sat  stooping  her  tall  figure  forward  in  a 
chair  too  small  for  her.  Sylvia  looked  at  this  ungraceful 
attitude  with  strong  disapproval.  What  she  thought  was 
that  such  inattention  to  looks  was  perfectly  inexcusable. 
What  she  said  was,  in  a  very  gracious  voice :  "  What  a 
beautiful  home  you  have,  Mrs.  Fiske!  How  wonderfully 
happy  you  must  be  in  it." 

The  other  woman  started  a  little  at  being  addressed,  and 
looked  around  vaguely  at  the  conventional  luxury  of  the 
room,  with  its  highly  polished  floors,  its  huge  rich  rugs,  its 
antlers  on  the  wall,  and  its  deeply  upholstered  leather 
chairs.  When  Sylvia  signified  her  intention  of  continuing 
the  talk  by  taking  a  seat  beside  the  fire,  Mrs.  Fiske  roused 
herself  to  the  responsibility  of  entertaining  the  young  guest. 
After  some  futile  attempts  at  conversation  in  the  abstract, 
she  discharged  this  responsibility  through  the  familiar  ex- 
pedient of  the  family  photograph  album.  With  this  be- 
tween them,  the  two  women  were  able  to  go  through  the 
required  form  of  avoiding  silences.  Sylvia  was  fearfully 
bored  by  the  succession  of  unknown  faces,  and  utterly  un- 
able to  distinguish,  in  her  hostess*  somewhat  disconnected 
talk,  between  the  different  sets  of  the  Colonel's  children. 
"  This  one  is  Stanley,  Jermain's  brother,  who  died  when 
he  was  a  baby,"  the  dull  voice  droned  on ;  "  and  this  is 
Mattie  in  her  wedding  dress." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  Jerry  had  a  married  sister,"  mur- 
mured Sylvia  indifferently,  glad  of  any  comment  to  make. 

"  She's  only  his  half-sister,  a  great  deal  older." 

"  But  you  haven't  a  daughter  old  enough  to  be  married  ?  " 
queried  Sylvia,  astonished. 

"  Oh — no — no.  Mattie  is  the  daughter  of  the  Colonel's 
first  wife." 

"  Oh,"  said  Sylvia  awkwardly,  remembering  now  that 
Mrs.   Draper  had   spoken   of  the   Colonel's   several   mar- 


200  The  Bent  Twig 

riages.  She  added  to  explain  her  question,  "  I'd  forgotten 
that  Jerry's  mother  was  the  Colonel's  second  wife  and  not 
his  first." 

"  She  was  his  third,"  breathed  Mrs.  Fiske,  looking  down 
sX  the  pages  of  the  album. 

Sylvia  repressed  a  "  Good  gracious ! "  of  startled  re 
pugnance  to  the  topic,  and  said,  to  turn  the  conversation, 
"  Oh,  who  is  that  beautiful  little  girl  with  the  fur  cap  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  picture,"  said  Mrs.  Fiske,  "  when  I  was 
eighteen.  I  was  married  soon  after.  I've  changed  very 
much  since  my  marriage."  Decidedly  it  was  not  Sylvia's 
lucky  day  for  finding  topics  of  talk.  She  was  wondering 
how  the  billiard  game  was  progressing,  and  was  sorry  she 
had  not  risked  going  with  the  others.  She  was  recalled 
by  Mrs.  Fiske's  saying  with  a  soft  earnestness,  "  I  want  you 
to  know,  Miss  Marshall,  how  I  appreciate  your  kindness  to 
me!". 

Sylvia  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  half  fearing  that 
she  was  being  made  fun  of. 

The  other  went  on :  "  It  was  very  nice  of  you — your 
staying  here  to  talk  with  me  instead  of  going  off  with  the 

young  people — the   others   don't   often "     She   played 

nervously  with  a  gleaming  pendant  on  a  platinum  chain 
which  hung  over  her  flat  chest,  and  went  on :  "  I — you 
have  always  seemed  to  me  the  very  nicest  of  Jerry's  friends 
— and  I  shall  never  forget  your  mother's  kindness.  I 
hope — I  hope  so  much  I  shall  see  more  of  her.  The 
Colonel  thinks  so  too — we've  liked  so  much  having  him 
like  you."  The  incoherence  of  this  did  not  prevent  Sylvia's- 
having  a  chillingly  accurate  grasp  on  its  meaning.  "  It  is 
the  Colonel's  hope,"  she  went  on  painfully,  "  to  have  Jerry 
marry  as  soon  as  he  graduates  from  the  Law  School.  The 
Colonel  thinks  that  nothing  is  so  good  for  a  young  man  as 
an  early  marriage — though  of  course  Jerry  isn't  so  very, 
very  young  any  more.  He — the — Colonel  is  a  great  be- 
liever in  marriage "  Her  voice  died  away  into  mur- 
murs.   Her  long,  thin  throat  contracted  in  a  visible  swallow. 

At  this  point  only  Sylvia's  perception  of  the  other's  an- 


Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice      201 

guished  embarrassment  prevented  her  from  literally  run- 
ning away.  As  it  was,  they  sat  silent,  fingering  over  the 
pages  of  the  album  and  gazing  unseeingly  at  the  various 
set  countenances  which  looked  out  at  them  with  the  un- 
natural glare  of  the  photographed.  Sylvia  was  canvassing 
desperately  one  possibility  of  escape  after  another  when 
the  door  opened,  and  the  lively  young  man  of  the  trolley- 
car  stepped  in.  He  tiptoed  to  the  fireplace  with  exaggerated 
caution,  looking  theatrically  over  his  shoulder  for  a  pursuer. 
Sylvia  positively  welcomed  his  appearance  and  turned  to 
him  with  a  cordiality  quite  unlike  the  cool  dignity  with 
which  she  had  planned  to  treat  him.  He  sat  down  on  the 
rug  before  the  fire,  very  close  to  her  feet,  and  looked  up  at 
her,  grinning.  "  Here's  where  I  get  another  one  on  Jerry — 
what?"  he  said,  ignoring  Mrs.  Fiske.  "Old  Jerry  thinks 
he's  playing  such  a  wonderful  game  in  there  he  can't  tear 
himself  away — but  there'll  be  something  doing,  I  guess, 
when  he  does  come  and  finds  where  i*  am!"  He  ha/1  par- 
taken freely  of  the  excellent  white  wine  served  at  luncheon 
(the  first  Sylvia  had  ever  seen),  and  though  entirely  master 
of  his  speech,  was  evidently  even  more  uplifted  than  was 
his  usual  hilarious  wont.  Sylvia  looked  down  at  him,  and 
across  at  the  weak-faced  woman  opposite  her,  and  had  a 
moment  of  wishing  heartily  she  had  never  come.  She 
stood  up  impatiently,  a  movement  which  the  young  man 
took  to  mean  a  threat  of  withdrawal.  "  Aw,  don't  go !  "  he 
pleaded,  sprawling  across  the  rug  towards  her.  As  she 
turned  away,  he  snatched  laughingly  at  her  skirts,  crying 
out,  "  Tag !    You're  caught !    You're  It !  " 

At  this  moment  Jerry  Fiske  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
He  looked  darkly  at  his  friend's  cheerful  face  and  said 
shortly:  "  Here,  Stub— quit  it!  Get  up  out  of  that!  "  He 
added  to  Sylvia,  holding  out  his  hand :  "  Come  on,  go  skat- 
ing with  me.    The  ice  is  great." 

"  Are  the  others  going  ?  "  asked  Sylvia. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Jerry,  a  trifle  impatiently. 

The  young  man  on  the  floor  scrambled  up.  "  Here's  one 
that's  going,  whoever  else  don't,"  he  announced. 


202  The  Bent  Twig 

"  Get  yourself  a  girl,  then,"  commanded  Jerry,  "  and  tell 
the  rest  to  come  along.    There's  to  be  eats  at  four  o'clock." 

The  ice  was  even  as  fine  as  it  had  been  so  redundantly 
represented  to  Sylvia.  Out  of  doors,  leaning  her  supple, 
exquisitely  poised  body  to  the  wind  as  she  veered  like  a 
bird  on  her  flying  skates,  Sylvia's  spirits  rebounded  with 
an  instant  reaction  into  enjoyment.  She  adored  skating, 
and  she  had  in  it,  as  in  all  active  exercise,  the  half-wild 
pleasure  of  one  whose  childhood  is  but  a  short  time  be- 
hind her.  Furthermore,  her  costume  prepared  for  this 
event  (Mrs.  Draper  had  told  her  of  the  little  lake  on  the 
Fiske  estate)  was  one  of  her  successes.  It  had  been  a 
pale  cream  broadcloth  of  the  finest  texture,  one  of  Aunt 
Victoria's  reception  gowns,  which  had  evidently  been 
spoiled  by  having  coffee  spilled  down  the  front  breadth. 
Sylvia  had  had  the  bold  notion  of  dyeing  it  scarlet  and 
making  it  over  with  bands  of  black  plush  (the  best  bits 
from  an  outworn  coat  of  her  mother's).  On  her  gleaming 
red-brown  hair  she  had  perched  a  little  red  cap  with  a 
small  black  wing  on  either  side  (one  of  Lawrence's  pet 
chickens  furnished  this),  and  she  carried  the  muff  which 
belonged  with  her  best  set  of  furs.  Thus  equipped,  she 
looked  like  some  impish,  slender  young  Brunhilde,  with  her 
two  upspringing  wings.  The  young  men  gazed  at  her  with 
the  most  unconcealed  delight.  As  she  skated  very  well, 
better  than  any  of  the  other  girls,  she  felt,  sweeping  about 
the  pond  in  long,  swift  curves,  that  she  was  repaid  for  her 
ignorance  of  billiards. 

Jerry  and  the  young  man  he  called  Stub  were  openly  in 
competition  for  her  attention,  highly  jocose  on  Stub's  part 
and  not  at  all  so  on  Jerry's,  whose  brow  did  not  clear  at 
the  constant  crackling  of  the  other's  witticisms.  On  the 
shore  burned  a  big  fire,  tended  by  a  man-servant  in  livery, 
who  was  occupied  in  setting  out  on  a  long  table  a  variety  of 
sandwiches  and  cups  of  steaming  bouillon.  Sylvia  had  never 
encountered  before  a  real  man-servant  in  livery.  She 
looked  at  him  with  the  curiosity  she  might  have  shown  r*t 


Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice      zoz 

seeing  a  mediaeval  knight  in  full  armor.  Jerry  brought  her 
a  cup  of  the  bouillon,  which  was  deliciously  hot  and  strong. 
Experienced  as  she  was  in  the  prudent  provisioning  of  the 
Marshall  kitchen  she  was  staggered  to  think  how  many 
chickens  had  gone  into  filling  with  that  clear  liquor  the  big 
silver  tureen  which  steamed  over  the  glittering  alcohol 
lamp.  The  table  was  set,  for  that  casual  outdoor  picnic 
lunch,  as  she  could  hardly  have  imagined  a  royal  board. 

"  What  beautiful  things  your  people  have ! "  she  ex- 
claimed to  Jerry,  looking  at  a  pile  of  small  silver  forks 
with  delicately  carved  ivory  handles.  "  The  rugs  in  the 
house  are  superb." 

Jerry  waved  them  aside  as  phenomena  of  no  importance. 
"  All  of  'em  tributes  from  Dad's  loving  constituents,"  he 
said,  repeating  what  was  evidently  an  old  joke  in  the  family. 
"  You'd  better  believe  Dad  doesn't  vote  to  get  the  tariff 
raised  on  anything  unless  he  sees  to  it  that  the  manu- 
facturers know  who  they  have  to  thank.  It  works  some- 
thing fine !  Talk  about  the  presents  a  doctor  gets  from  his 
grateful  patients  !     Nothing  to  it !  " 

This  picturesque  statement  of  practical  politics  meant  so 
little  to  Sylvia's  mind  that  she  dismissed  it  unheard,  admir- 
ing, in  spite  of  her  effort  to  take  things  for  granted,  the 
fabulous  fineness  of  the  little  fringed  napkin  set  under  the 
bouillon  cup.  Jerry  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes. 
"  Yep — tariff  on  linen,"  he  commented  pregnantly. 

The  young  man  called  Stub  now  sped  up  to  them,  skating 
very  fast,  and  swept  Sylvia  off.  "Here's  where  we  show 
'em  how  to  do  it !  "  he  cried  cheerfully,  skating  backward 
with  crazy  rapidity,  and  pulling  Sylvia  after  him.  There 
was  a  clang  of  swift  steel  on  ice,  and  Jerry  bore  down 
upon  them,  the  muscles  of  his  jaw  showing  prominently. 
Without  a  word  he  thrust  his  friend  aside,  caught  at  Sylvia's 
hands,  and  bore  her  in  a  swooping  flight  to  the  other  end  of 
the  pond,  now  deserted  by  the  other  skaters. 

As  they  sped  along  he  bent  over  Sylvia  fiercely  and  said 
in  a  low,  angry  tone,  "  You  don't  like  that  bounder,  do 
you?    You  don't!" 


204  The  Bent  Twig 

Sylvia  was  astonished  at  the  heat  of  his  suspicion.  She 
had  known  that  Jerry  was  not  notably  acute,  but  it  had 
seemed  to  her  that  her  dislike  for  his  friend  must  be  more 
than  apparent  to  any  one.  They  had  reached  the  edge  of 
the  ice  now,  and  Sylvia's  hands  were  still  in  Jerry's,  al- 
though they  were  not  skating,  but  stood  facing  each  other. 
A  bush  of  osier,  frozen  into  the  ice,  lifted  its  red  twigs 
near  them.  Sylvia  looked  down  at  it,  hesitating  how  to 
express  her  utter  denial  of  any  liking  for  the  hilarious 
young  man.  Jerry  misunderstood  her  pause  and  cried  out : 
"  Good  God !  Sylvia !     Don't  say  you  do." 

Sylvia's  heart  gave  a  frightened  leap.  "  Oh  no — no — not 
a  bit  1 "  she  said  hastily,  looking  longingly  across  the  pond 
at  the  group  around  the  fire.  Jerry  caught  his  breath 
with  a  gasp  and  gripped  her  hands  hard.  "  It  makes  me 
crazy  to  see  you  look  at  another  fellow,"  he  said.  He 
forced  her  eyes  to  meet  his.  u  Sylvia — you  know — you 
know  what  I  mean." 

Yes,  Sylvia  knew  what  he  meant.  Her  very  white  face 
showed  that.  The  young  man  went  on,  pressing,  masterful, 
confident,  towering  over  her :  "  It's  idiotic  to  speak  of  it 
now,  out  here — with  all  these  people  around — but  it  just 
got  me  to  see  you  with  that — I  wasn't  sure  how  I  felt  about 
you  till  I  saw  how  I  felt  when  you  seemed  so  friendly  with 
him,  when  you  got  off  the  car  together.  Then  I  knew. 
It  made  me  crazy — I  wanted  you !  " 

Sylvia  had  not  been  able  once  to  look  away  from  him 
since  he  began  to  speak.  Her  mouth  was  a  little  open  in 
her  white  face,  her  eyes  fixed  with  a  painful  intensity  on 
his.  He  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue.  "  Sylvia — its 
all  right— isn't  it  ?  " 

With  no  change  of  expression  in  her  strained  face,  Sylvia 
nodded.  As  suddenly  and  apparently  as  automatically  she 
took  a  backward  step. 

The  young  man  made  a  great  stride  towards  her — there 
was  a  sound  of  quick  strokes  on  the  ice  and — "  BOO !  " 
shouted  the  hilarious  young  man,  bursting  between  them 
at  railroad  speed.     He  executed  a  marvelous  pirouette  and 


Sylvia  Skates  Merrily  on  Thin  Ice      205 

returned  instantly,  calling  out,  "  Less  spooning  in  the  cor- 
ners if  you  please — or  if  it's  got  to  be,  let  me  in ! "  He 
was  followed  closely  by  a  string  of  young  men  and  girls, 
playing  snap-the-whip.  They  "  snapped "  just  as  they 
reached  Jerry.  The  end  girl  flew  off  and  bumped,  scream- 
ing with  joy,  into  Jerry's  arms.  He  looked  furiously  over 
her  head  towards  Sylvia,  but  she  had  been  enveloped  in  a 
ring  and  was  being  conveyed  away  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  usual  squeals  and  shouts.  The  Colonel  had  come 
down  to  take  them  all  back,  she  was  informed,  and  was 
waiting  for  them  with  the  sleigh. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
AS  A  BIRD  OUT  OF  A  SNARE 

Sylvia  dressed  for  dinner  literally  like  one  in  a  dream. 
Outwardly  she  was  so  calm  that  she  thought  she  was  so 
inwardly.  It  was  nothing  like  so  exciting  as  people  said, 
to  get  engaged,  she  thought  as  she  brushed  out  her  hair 
and  put  it  up  in  a  big,  gleaming  knot.  Here  she  had  been 
engaged  for  a  whole  hour  and  a  half,  and  was  getting 
calmer  every  minute,  instead  of  the  reverse.  She  astonished 
herself  by  the  lucidity  of  her  brain,  although  it  only  worked 
by  snatches — there  being  lacunae  when  she  could  not  have 
told  what  she  was  doing.  And  yet,  as  she  had  approached 
the  house,  sitting  again  beside  the  Colonel,  she  had  looked 
with  a  new  thrill  of  interest  at  its  imposing  battlemented 
iacade.  The  great  hall  had  seemed  familiar  to  her  already 
as  she  stepped  across  it  on  her  way  to  the  stairs,  her  feet 
had  pressed  the  rugs  with  assurance,  she  had  been  able  to 
be  quite  nonchalant  about  refusing  the  services  of  the  maid 
who  offered  to  help  her  dress. 

It  was  true  that  from  time  to  time  she  suddenly  flushed 
or  paled ;  it  was  true  that  her  mind  seemed  incapable 
of  the  slightest  consecutive  thought;  it  was  true  that 
she  seemed  to  be  in  a  dream,  peopled  by  crazily  incon- 
sequent images — she  had  again  and  again  a  vision,  star- 
tlingly  vivid,  of  the  red-twigged  osier  beside  which  she  had 
stood;  it  was  true  that  she  had  a  slight  feeling  of  vertigo 
when  she  tried  to  think  ahead  of  the  next  moment — but  still 
she  was  going  ahead  with  her  unpacking  and  dressing  so 
steadily  that  she  marveled.  She  decided  again  from  the 
depth  of  her  experience  that  getting  engaged  was  nothing 
like  so  upsetting  an  event  as  people  made  out.  She  thrust 
the  last  pin  into  her  hair  and  tipped  her  head  preeningly 

206 


As  a  Bird  out  of  a  Snare  207 

before  the  big  triplicate  mirror — the  first  time  she  had  ever 
encountered  this  luxury  outside  of  a  ready-made  clothes 
shop.  The  yellow  chiffon  came  out  from  the  trunk  in  per- 
fect condition,  looking  like  a  big,  silk-petaled  flower  as  she 
slipped  it  on  over  her  bare  shoulders,  and  emerged  above, 
triumphant  and  yet  half  afraid  to  look  at  herself  in  the 
mirror  lest  she  should  see  that  her  home-made  toilet  had 
not  "  the  right  look."  One  glance  satisfied  even  her  jealous 
eagerness.  It  had  exactly  the  right  look — that  is,  it  looked 
precisely  like  the  picture  from  which  she  had  copied  it. 
She  gazed  with  naive  satisfaction  at  the  faithfulness  with 
which  her  reflected  appearance  resembled  that  of  the 
Parisian  demi-mondaine  whose  photograph  she  had  seen, 
and  settled  on  her  slim,  delicately  modeled  shoulders  the 
straps  of  shirred  and  beaded  chiffon  which  apparently  per- 
formed the  office  of  keeping  her  dress  from  sliding  to  the 
floor.  In  reality,  under  its  fluid,  gauzy  draperies,  it  was 
constructed  on  a  firm,  well-fitting,  well-fastened  foundation 
of  opaque  cloth  which  quite  adequately  clothed  the  young 
body,  but  its  appearance  was  of  a  transparent  cloud,  only 
kept  from  floating  entirely  away  by  those  gleaming  straps 
on  the  shoulders,  an  effect  carefully  calculated  in  the  origi- 
nal model,  and  inimitably  caught  by  Sylvia's  innocent 
fingers. 

She  turned  herself  about,  artlessly  surprised  to  see  that 
her  neck  and  shoulders  looked  quite  like  those  of  the  women 
in  the  fashion-plates  and  the  magazine  illustrations.  She 
looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  early  yet.  She  reflected  that 
she  never  could  take  the  time  other  girls  did  in  dressing. 
She  wondered  what  they  did.  What  could  one  do,  after 
one's  bath  was  taken,  one's  hair  done,  and  one's  gown 
donned — oh,  of  course,  powder!  She  applied  it  liberally, 
and  then  wiped  away  every  grain,  that  being  what  she  had 
seen  older  girls  do  in  the  Gymnasium  dressing-room.  Then 
with  a  last  survey  of  her  face,  unaltered  by  the  ceremonial 
with  the  powder-puff,  she  stepped  to  the  door. 

But  there,  with  her  hand  on  the  knob,  she  was  halted  by 
an  inexplicable  hesitation  about  opening  the  door  and  show- 


208  The  Bent  Twig 

ing  herself.  She  looked  down  at  her  bare  shoulders  and 
bosom,  and  faintly  blushed.  It  was  really  very,  very  low, 
far  lower  than  any  dress  she  had  ever  worn !  And  the  fact 
that  Eleanor  Hubert,  that  all  the  "  swell "  girls  wore  theirs 
low,  did  not  for  the  moment  suffice  her — it  was  some- 
how different — their  showing  their  shoulders  and  her  show* 
ing  her  own.  She  could  not  turn  the  knob  and  stood, 
irresolute,  frowning  vaguely,  though  not  very  deeply  dis- 
quieted. Finally  she  compromised  by  taking  up  a  pretty- 
spangled  scarf  Aunt  Victoria  had  sent  her,  wrapping  it 
about  her  like  a  shawl,  in  which  quaint  garb  she  went  out 
in  more  confidence,  and  walked  down  the  hall  to  the  stair- 
way. Half-way  down  she  met  Colonel  Fiske  just  coming 
up  to  dress.  Seeing  one  of  his  young  guests  arrayed  for 
the  evening  he  made  her  his  compliments,  the  first  words 
rather  absent  and  perfunctory.  But  when  he  was  aware 
which  guest  she  was,  he  warmed  into  a  pressing  and  per- 
sonal note,  as  his  practised  eyes  took  in  the  beauty,  tonight 
startlingly  enhanced  by  excitement,  of  the  girl's  dark, 
shining  eyes,  flushed  cheeks,  and  white  neck  and  arms. 
He  ended  by  lifting  her  hand,  in  his  florid  way,  and  press- 
ing it  to  his  white  mustache  for  a  very  fervent  kiss.  Sylvia 
blushed  prettily,  meeting  his  hot  old  eyes  with  a  dewy 
unconsciousness,  and  smiling  frankly  up  into  the  deeply 
lined  carnal  face  with  the  simple-hearted  pleasure  she 
would  have  felt  at  the  kind  word  of  any  elderly  man.  The 
Colonel  seemed  quite  old  to  her — much  older  than  her 
father — like  Professor  Kennedy. 

u  Jerry's  in  the  library,  waiting,"  his  father  announced 
with  a  sly  laugh.  "  I  wondered  at  the  young  rascal's  being 
dressed  so  far  ahead  of  time."  He  turned  reluctantly  and 
went  on  up  the  stairs,  leaving  Sylvia  to  go  forward  to  her 
first  meeting  alone  with  the  man  she  had  promised  to 
marry.  As  she  descended  the  long  flight  of  stairs,  her  scarf, 
loosened  by  her  movement,  slipped  unobserved  in  her  ex- 
citement and  hung  lightly  about  her  shoulders. 

The  door  to  the  library  was  shut.  She  opened  it  with  a 
rapidly  beating  heart  and  stood  on  the  threshold,  shyly  hesi- 


As  a  Bird  out  of  a  Snare  209 

tating  to  advance  further,  looking  with  agitation  at  the  stal- 
wart, handsome,  well-groomed  figure  which  stood  in  an 
attitude  of  impatient  expectation  by  the  window.  Except 
for  the  light  which  came  in  from  the  electric  bulb  on  the 
porch  outside,  the  big  room  was  in  twilight.  In  the  bril- 
liantly lighted  door-opening,  she  stood  revealed  as  by  a 
searchlight. 

At  the  sound  of  the  opening  door,  and  his  name  spoken 
in  a  quavering  voice,  the  young  man  turned,  paused  an 
instant  as  if  blinded  by  the  vision,  and  sprang  forward. 
The  door  behind  Sylvia  swung  shut,  and  her  eyes,  widening 
in  the  dusk,  saw  only  the  headlong,  overwhelming  rush  upon 
her  of  her  lover.  She  was  enfolded  strongly  in  muscular 
arms,  she  was  pressed  closer  and  yet  closer  to  a  powerful 
body,  whose  heat  burned  through  the  thin  broadcloth,  she 
was  breathless,  stunned,  choked.  As  the  man  bent  forward 
over  her,  clasping  her  to  him,  her  flexible  spine  bent  and 
her  head  drooped  backward,  her  face  with  its  flush  all 
gone,  gleaming  white  in  the  dusk.  At  this  he  rained  kisses 
on  it,  on  her  eyes,  hair,  cheeks,  mouth,  the  burning  soft- 
ness of  his  full  lips  seeming  to  leave  a  smear  on  her  skin 
where  they  pressed  it.  Still  holding  her  with  one  arm, 
pressed  to  him  as  though  the  two  young  bodies  were  gripped 
together  by  a  vice,  he  loosened  the  other  arm  and  thrust 
it  at  the  back  of  her  dress,  through  the  flimsy  gauze  of  her 
scarf,  down  next  her  body.  His  stiff  cuff  caught  on  the 
edge  of  her  dress,  and  his  sleeve  slid  up — it  was  his  bare 
arm  against  her  naked  flesh.  He  gave  a  savage,  smothered, 
gasping  exclamation,  pressed  his  fingers  deeply  into  her 
side,  still  kissing  her  passionately,  her  neck,  her  shoulders, 
burying  his  hot  face  in  her  bosom. 

It  was  the  girl's  body  which  acted,  since  at  the  first  in- 
stant of  the  whirlwind  which  had  broken  over  her,  her 
mind  had  been  shocked  into  a  swooning  paralysis.  Only 
her  strong,  sound  body,  hardened  by  work,  fortified  by  out- 
door exercise,  was  ready  in  its  every  fiber  for  this  moment. 
Her  body  bent  suddenly  like  a  spring  of  fine  steel,  its 
strength  momentarily  more  than  a  match  for  his,  and  thrust 


210  The  Bent  Twig 

the  man  from  her  with  staggering  violence.  Her  reaction 
from  him  was  as  physical  a  sensation  as  though  she  had 
bitten  into  a  tempting  fruit  and  found  it  not  sweet — not 
even  bitter — but  nasty.     She  sickened  at  the  sight  of  him. 

As  he  caught  his  balance,  laughing  a  little  but  not  at  all 
good-naturedly,  and  started  back  towards  her  with  a 
dangerous  dark  face  of  excited  anger  and  desire,  his  head- 
long rush  was  checked  an  instant  by  the  fierce  eyes  which 
flamed  at  him  from  her  crimson  face.  Even  her  neck  and 
shoulders  were  now  scarlet.  She  held  him  off  for  the 
space  of  a  breath,  giving  one  deep  exclamation,  "Oh!" 
short,  sharply  exhaled,  almost  like  a  blow  in  his  face. 

But  his  blood  was  up  as  well  as  hers,  and  after  his 
momentary  pause,  he  rushed  forward  again,  his  hand- 
some, blond  face  black  with  passion. 

Sylvia  stooped,  gathered  up  her  skirts,  turned,  burst 
open  the  door,  and  fled  out  of  the  room,  running  in  her  high- 
heeled  satin  slippers  as  she  did  on  the  track  in  the  Gym- 
nasium, with  long,  deer-like  bounds.  In  a  flash  she  had 
crossed  the  wide  hall — which  was  as  it  happened  empty, 
although  she  would  not  have  slackened  her  pace  for  all  the 
assembled  company — and  was  darting  arrow-like  up  the 
stairs,  her  torn  scarf  flying  behind  her  like  a  banner.  Her 
flight  had  been  so  unexpected  and  so  swift  that  young 
Fiske  did  not  attempt  to  follow  her;  but  she  reached  her 
room,  flung  the  door  shut,  and  locked  it  with  as  much 
precipitancy  as  though  he  were  on  her  heels,  instead  of 
standing  quite  still,  open-mouthed,  where  she  had  left  him. 

The  sharp  crack  of  her  slamming  door,  loud  in  the  quiet 
house,  broke  the  spell  which  held  him.  His  mouth  shut, 
and  his  clenched  hands  loosened  from  their  fierce  tension. 
He  took  an  aimless  step  and  drew  a  long  breath.  A  mo- 
ment later,  quite  automatically,  he  fumbled  for  his  cigarette- 
case,  and  finding  it,  took  out  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it  with 
fingers  that  were  not  steady.  The  familiar  action  and  the 
first  puff  of  smoke  affected  him  like  emerging  from  a  tur- 
moil of  darkness  into  the  quiet  and  order  of  a  well-lighted 
room,       Well,  may  I  be  damned !     he  said  to  himself  with 


As  a  Bird  out  of  a  Snare  211 

the  beginning  of  a  return  of  his  usual  assurance — "  the 
damn  little  spitfire !  " 

He  walked  about  the  room,  puffing  vigorously,  feeling 
with  relief  his  blood  resume  its  usual  rate  of  circulation. 
His  head  seemed  to  clear  of  a  thick  vapor.  The  star- 
tling recollection  of  the  anger  in  his  fiancee's  eyes  was  fad- 
ing rapidly  from  his  mind.  Now  he  only  saw  her,  blushing, 
recoiling,  fleeing — he  laughed  out  a  little,  this  time  not 
angrily,  but  with  relish.  "  Ain't  she  the  firebrand ! "  he 
said  aloud.  He  found  his  desire  for  her  a  hundredfold 
enhanced  and  stood  still,  his  eyes  very  lustrous,  feeling 
again  in  imagination  the  warm  softness  of  her  bosom  under 
his  lips.  "  Gee !  "  he  exclaimed,  turning  restlessly  in  his 
pacing  walk. 

He  was  aware  that  some  one  in  the  room  moved.  "  Jer- 
main,"  said  his  stepmother's  faint  voice.  He  looked  at  her 
smiling.  "  Hello,  Momma,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  "  when 
did  you  gum-shoe  in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  just  now,"  she  told  him,  giving  him  an  assurance 
which  he  doubted,  and  which  he  would  not  have  valued 
had  he  known  it  to  be  true.  He  was  perfectly  indifferent 
as  to  the  chance  that  this  negligible  person  might  have  been 
a  spectator  to  the  scene  between  the  son  of  the  house  and  a 
guest.  If  she  said  anything  about  it,  he  meant  to  give  the 
all-sufficing  explanation  that  he  and  Miss  Marshall  had 
just  become  engaged.  This  would  of  course,  it  seemed 
self-evident  to  him,  make  it  all  right. 

But  Mrs.  Fiske  did  not  make  any  remark  calling  forth 
that  information.  She  only  said,  in  her  usual  listless  man- 
ner, "  Your  sleeve  is  shoved  up." 

He  glanced  down  in  surprise,  realizing  how  excited  he 
must  be  not  to  have  noticed  that  before,  and  remained  for 
a  moment  silent,  looking  at  the  splendidly  muscular  white 
arm,  and  the  large  well-manicured  hand.  He  was  feeling 
in  every  nerve  the  reminiscence  of  the  yielding  firmness  of 
Sylvia's  flesh,  bare  against  his  own.  The  color  came  up 
flamingly  into  his  face  again.  He  moistened  his  lips  with 
his  tongue.     "Jesus   Christ!"  he  exclaimed,   contemptu- 


212  The  Bent  Twig 

ously  careless  of  his  listener,  "  I'm  wild  in  love  with 
that  girl ! "  He  pulled  his  sleeve  down  with  a  quick, 
vigorous  gesture,  deftly  shot  the  cuff  out  beyond  the 
black  broadcloth,  and,  the  picture  of  handsome,  well- 
groomed  youth  in  easy  circumstances,  turned  again  to  his 
father's  wife.  "  What  you  in  here  for,  anyhow  ?  "  he  asked 
still  with  his  light  absence  of  concern  about  anything  she 
idid  or  did  not  do. 

She  hesitated,  looking  about  the  room.  "  I  thought  Miss 
Marshall  would  be  here.  She  promised  to  come  down  early 
to  write  the  names  on  the  place-cards.  I  thought  I  heard 
her  voice." 

"  You  did,"  he  told!  her.  "  She  came  down  early  all 
right — but  she  went  back  again."  He  laughed,  tossed  his 
cigarette-end  in  the  fireplace,  and  vouchsafing  no  more  ex- 
planation, strolled  into  the  billiard-room,  and  began  to 
knock  the  balls  about,  whistling  a  recent  dance  tune  with 
great  precision  and  vivacity.  He  was  anticipating  with 
quickened  blood  the  next  meeting  with  Sylvia.  As  he 
thrust  at  the  gleaming  balls,  his  mouth  smiled  and  his  eyes 
burned. 

Mrs.  Fiske  went  upstairs  and  knocked  at  Sylvia's  door. 
There  was  a  rush  of  quick  footsteps  and  the  girl  asked  from 
the  other  side  in  a  muffled  voice,  "  Who  is  it  ?  "  Mrs.  Fiske 
gave  her  name,  and  added,  in  answer  to  another  question, 
that  she  was  alone.  The  door  opened  enough  for  her  to 
enter,  and  closed  quickly  after  her.  She  lodktt  about  the 
disordered  room,  saw  the  open  trunk,  the  filmy  cascade  of 
yellow  chiffon  half  on  and  half  off  the  bed,  the  torn  and 
crumpled  spangled  scarf,  and  Sylvia  herself,  her  hastily 
donned  kimono  clutched  about  her  with  tense  hands. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  made  no  comment  on  this 
scene,  looking  at  Sylvia  with  dull,  faded  eyes  in  which 
there  was  no  life,  not  even  the  flicker  of  an  inquiry.  But 
Sylvia  began  in  a  nervous  voice  to  attempt  an  explanation : 
"  Oh,  Mrs.  Fiske — I — you'll  have  to  excuse  me — I  must  go 
home  at  once — I — I  was  just  packing.  I  thought — if  I 
hurried   I    could   make   the   eight-o'clock   trolley   back   to 


As  a  Bird  out  of  a  Snare  213 

La  Chance,  and  you  could  send  my  trunk  after  me."  Her 
every  faculty  was  so  concentrated  on  the  single  idea  of 
flight — flight  back  to  the  safety  of  home,  that  she  did  not 
think  of  the  necessity  of  making  an  excuse,  giving  a  reason 
for  her  action.  It  seemed  that  it  must  be  self-evident  to 
the  universe  that  she  could  not  stay  another  hour  in  that 
house. 

Mrs.  Fiske  nodded.  "  Yes,  I'll  send  your  trunk  after 
you,"  she  said.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  almost  audible, 
and  looked  down  at  the  fire  on  the  hearth.  Sylvia  came 
up  close  to  her,  looking  into  her  lusterless  eyes  with  deep 
entreaty.  "  And,  Mrs.  Fiske,  would  you  mind  not  telling 
any  one  I'm  going,  until  I'm  gone — nobody  at  all!  It's 
because — I — you  could  say  I  didn't  feel  well  enough  to 
come  down  to  dinner.  I — if  you — and  say  I  don't  want  any 
dinner  up  here  either !  " 

"  Won't  you  be  afraid  to  go  down  through  the  grounds 
to  the  trolley  alone,  at  night  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Fiske,  without 
looking  at  her. 

"  Everybody  will  be  at  dinner,  won't  they  ?  "  asked  Sylvia. 

Mrs.  Fiske  nodded,  her  eyes  on  the  floor. 

Upon  which,  '*  Oh  no,  I  won't  be  afraid !  "  cried  Sylvia. 

Her  hostess  turned  to  the  door.  "  Well,  I  won't  tell  them 
if  you  don't  want  me  to,"  she  said.  She  went  out,  without 
another  word,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  Sylvia  locked 
it,  and  went  on  with  her  wild  packing.  When  she  came  to 
the  yellow  chiffon  she  rolled  it  up  tightly  and  jammed  it 
into  a  corner  of  her  trunk;  but  the  instant  afterward  she 
snatched  it  out  and  thrust  it  fiercely  into  the  fire.  The  light 
fabric  caught  at  once,  the  flames  leaped  up,  filling  the  room 
with  a  roaring  heat  and  flare,  which  almost  as  quickly  died 
down  to  blackened  silence. 

Sylvia  faced  that  instant  of  red  glare  with  a  grimly  set 
jaw  and  a  deeply  flushed  face.  It  did  not  look  at  all  like 
her  own  face. 

At  a  quarter  of  eight  the  room  was  cleared,  the  trunk 
strapped  and  locked,  and  Sylvia  stood  dressed  for  the 
street,  gloved,  veiled,  and  furred.    Under  her  veil  her  face 


214  The  Bent  Twig 

showed  still  very  flushed.  She  took  up  her  small  handbag 
and  her  umbrella  and  opened  the  door  with  caution.  A 
faint  clatter  of  dishes  and  a  hum  of  laughing  talk  came  up 
to  her  ears.  Dinner  was  evidently  in  full  swing.  She 
stepped  out  and  went  noiselessly  down  the  stairs.  On 
the  bottom  step,  close  to  the  dining-room  door,  her  um- 
brella-tip caught  in  the  balustrade  and  fell  with  a  loud  clat- 
ter on  the  bare  polished  floor  of  the  hall.  Sylvia  shrank 
into  herself  and  waited  an  instant  with  suspended  breath 
for  the  pause  in  the  chatter  and  laughter  which  it  seemed 
must  follow.  The  moment  was  forever  connected  in  her 
mind  with  the  smell  of  delicate  food,  and  fading  flowers, 
and  human  beings  well-washed  and  perfumed,  which 
floated  out  to  her  from  the  dining-room.  She  looked  about 
her  at  the  luxuriously  furnished  great  hall,  and  hated  every 
inch  of  it. 

If  the  noise  was  heard,  it  evidently  passed  for  something 
dropped  by  a  servant,  for  Colonel  Fiske,  who  was  telling 
a  humorous  story,  went  on,  his  recital  punctuated  by 
bass  and  treble  anticipatory  laughter  from  his  auditors: 

" and  when  he  called  her  upon  the  'phone  the  next  day 

to  ask  her  about  it,  she  said  she  didn't  know  he'd  been  there 
at  all ! "  A  roar  of  appreciation  greeted  this  recondite 
climax,  under  cover  of  which  Sylvia  opened  the  front 
door  and  shut  it  behind  her. 

The  pure  coldness  of  the  winter  night  struck  sharply  and 
gratefully  on  her  senses  after  the  warmth  and  indoor  odors 
of  the  house.  She  sprang  forward  along  the  porch  and 
down  the  steps,  distending  her  nostrils  and  filling  her  lungs 
again  and  again.  These  long  deep  breaths  seemed  to  her 
like  the  renewal  of  life. 

As  her  foot  grated  on  the  gravel  of  the  driveway  she 
heard  a  stealthy  sound  back  of  her,  at  which  her  heart 
leaped  up  and  stood  still.  The  front  door  of  the  house  had 
opened  very  quietly  and  shut  again.  She  looked  over  her 
shoulder  fearfully,  preparing  to  race  down  the  road,  but 
seeing  only  Mrs.  Fiske's  tall,  stooping  figure,  stopped  and 
turned  expectantly.    The  older  woman  came  down  the  steps 


As  a  Bird  out  of  a  Snare  215 

towards  the  fugitive,  apparently  unaware  of  the  biting 
winter  wind  on  her  bared  shoulders.  Quite  at  a  loss,  and 
suspiciously  on  her  guard,  Sylvia  waited  for  her,  searching 
the  blurred  pale  face  with  impatient  inquiry. 

"  I — I  thought  I'd  walk  with  you  a  little  ways,"  said  the 
other,  looking  down  at  her  guest. 

"  Oh  no !  Don't! "  pleaded  Sylvia  in  despair  lest  some 
one  notice  her  hostess'  absence.  "You'll  take  a  dreadful 
cold!  With  no  wraps  on — do  go  back!  I'm  not  a  bit 
afraid!" 

The  other  looked  at  her  with  a  smoldering  flush  rising 
through  the  ashes  of  her  gray  face.  "  It  wasn't  that — I 
didn't  suppose  you'd  be  afraid — I — I  just  thought  I'd  like 
to  go  a  ways  with  you,"  she  repeated,  bringing  out  the 
words  confusedly  and  with  obvious  difficulty.  "I  won't 
make  you  late,"  she  added,  as  if  guessing  the  girl's  thoughts. 
She  put  a  thin  hand  on  Sylvia's  arm  and  drew  her  rapidly 
along  the  driveway.  For  a  moment  they  walked  in  silence. 
Then,  "  How  soon  will  you  reach  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  about  a  quarter  to  ten — the  Interurban  gets  into 
La  Chance  at  nine-fifteen,  and  it's  about  half  an  hour 
across  town  on  the  Washington  Street  trolley." 

"  In  less  than  two  hours !  "  cried  Mrs.  Fiske  wildly.  "  In 
less  than  two  hours !  " 

Seeing  no  cause  for  wonder  in  her  statement,  and  not 
welcoming  at  all  this  unsought  escort,  Sylvia  made  no 
answer.  There  was  another  silence,  and  then,  looking  in 
the  starlight  at  her  companion,  the  girl  saw  with  consterna- 
tion that  the  quiet  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks. 
She  stopped  short,  "  Oh  .  .  .  oh!"  she  cried.  She  caught 
up  the  other's  hand  in  a  bewildered  surprise.  She  had  not 
the  faintest  idea  what  could  cause  her  hostess'  emotion. 
She  was  horribly  afraid  she  would  lose  the  trolley.  Her 
face  painted  vividly  her  agitation  and  her  impatience. 

Mrs.  Fiske  drew  back  her  hand  and  wiped  her  eyes  with 
her  palm.  "  Well,  I  must  be  going  back,"  she  said.  She 
looked  dimly  at  the  girl's  face,  and  suddenly  threw  her 
arms  about  Sylvia's  neck,  clinging  to  her.    She  murmured 


216  The  Bent  Twig 

incoherent  words,  the  only  ones  which  Sylvia  could  make 
out  being,  "I  can't — I  can't — I  can't!" 

What  it  was  she  could  not  do,  remained  an  impenetrable 
mystery  to  Sylvia,  for  at  that  moment  she  turned  away 
quickly,  and  went  back  up  the  driveway,  her  face  in  her 
hands.  Sylvia  hesitated,  penetrated,  in  spite  of  her  absorp- 
tion in  her  own  affairs,  by  a  vague  pity,  but  hearing  in  the 
distance  the  clang  of  the  trolley-car's  bell,  she  herself 
turned  and  ran  desperately  down  the  driveway.  She 
reached  the  public  road  just  in  time  to  stop  the  heavy 
car,  and  to  swing  herself  lightly  on,  to  all  appearances 
merely  a  rather  unusually  well-set-up,  fashionably  dressed 
young  lady,  presenting  to  the  heterogeneous  indifference  of 
the  other  passengers  in  the  car  even  a  more  ostentatiously 
abstracted  air  than  is  the  accepted  attitude  for  young 
ladies  traveling  alone.  One  or  two  of  her  fellow  voyagers 
wondered  at  the  deep  flush  on  her  face,  but  forgot  it  the 
next  moment.  It  was  a  stain  which  was  not  entirely  to 
fade  from  Sylvia's  face  and  body  for  many  days  to  come. 


CHAPTER  XX 

"BLOW,  WIND;  SWELL,  BILLOW;  AND  SWIM, 
BARK!" 

She  reached  home,  as  she  had  thought,  before  ten  o'clock, 
her  unexpected  arrival  occasioning  the  usual  flurry  of  ex- 
clamation and  question  not  to  be  suppressed  even  by  the 
most  self-contained  family  with  a  fixed  desire  to  let  its 
members  alone,  and  a  firm  tradition  of  not  interfering  in 
their  private  affairs.  Judith  had  come  home  before  her 
father  and  now  looked  up  from  her  game  of  checkers  with 
wondering  eyes.  Sylvia  explained  that  she  was  not  sick, 
and  that  nothing  had  happened  to  break  up  or  disturb  the 
house-party.  M  I  just  felt  like  coming  home,  that's  all !  " 
she  said  irritably,  touched  on  the  raw  by  the  friendly  lov- 
ing eyes  and  voices  about  her.  She  was  glad  at  least  that 
her  father  was  not  at  home.  That  was  one  less  to  look  at 
her. 

"  Well,  get  along  to  bed  with  you !  "  said  her  mother, 
in  answer  to  her  impatient  explanation.  "  And,  you  chil- 
dren— keep  still !     Don't  bother  her !  " 

Sylvia  crept  upstairs  into  the  whiteness  of  her  own 
slant-ceilinged  room,  and  without  lighting  a  lamp  sat  down 
on  the  bed.  Her  knees  shook  under  her.  She  made  no 
move  to  take  off  her  furs  or  hat.  She  felt  no  emotion,  only 
a  leaden  fatigue  and  lameness  as  though  she  had  been 
beaten.  Her  mother,  coming  in  five  minutes  later  with  a 
lighted  lamp  and  a  cup  of  hot  chocolate,  made  no  comment 
at  finding  her  still  sitting,  fully  dressed  in  the  dark.  She 
set  the  lamp  down,  and  with  swift  deftness  slipped  out 
hatpins,  unhooked  furs,  unbuttoned  and  unlaced  and  loos- 
ened, until  Sylvia  woke  from  her  lethargy  and  quickly  com- 
pleted the  process,  slipping  on  her  nightgown  and  getting 
into  bed.    Not  a  word  had  been  exchanged.    Mrs.  Marshall 

217 


2i 8  The  Bent  Twig' 

brought  the  cup  of  hot  chocolate  and  Sylvia  drank  it  as 
though  she  were  a  little  girl  again.  Her  mother  kissed 
her  good-night,  drew  the  blankets  a  little  more  snugly  over 
her,  opened  two  windows  wide,  took  away  the  lamp,  and 
shut  the  door. 

Sylvia,  warmed  and  fed  by  the  chocolate,  lay  stretched 
at  full  length  in  the  bed,  breathing  in  the  fresh  air  which 
rushed  across  her  face  from  the  windows,  feeling  herself 
in  a  white  beatitude  of  safety  and  peace.  Especially  did 
she  feel  grateful  to  her  mother.  "  Isn't  Mother  great! "  she 
said  to  herself.  Everything  that  had  passed  seemed  like  a 
confusing  dream  to  her,  so  dreadful,  so  terrifying  that  she 
was  amazed  to  feel  herself,  in  spite  of  it,  overcome  with 
drowsiness.  Now  the  roles  were  reversed.  It  was  her 
brain  that  was  active,  racing  and  shuddering  from  one 
frightening  mental  picture  to  another,  while  her  body, 
young,  sound,  healthful,  fell  deeper  and  deeper  into  torpor, 
dragging  the  quivering  mind  down  to  healing  depths  of 
oblivion.  The  cold,  pure  air  blew  so  strongly  in  her  face 
that  she  closed  her  eyes.  When  she  opened  them  again  the 
sun  was  shining. 

She  started  up  nervously,  still  under  the  influence  of  a 
vivid  dream — strange.  .  .  .  Then  as  she  blinked  and  rubbed 
her  eyes  she  saw  her  mother  standing  by  the  bed,  with  a 
pale,  composed  face. 

"  It's  nine  o'clock,  Sylvia,"  she  said,  "  and  Mr.  Fiske  is 
downstairs,  asking  to  see  you.  He  tells  me  that  you  and 
he  are  engaged  to  be  married." 

Sylvia  was  instantly  wide  awake.  "  Oh  no !  Oh  no !  " 
she  said  passionately.  "  No,  we're  not !  I  won't  be !  I 
won't  see  him ! "  She  looked  about  her  wildly,  and  added, 
"  I'll  write  him  that — just  wait  a  minute."  She  sprang  out 
of  bed,  caught  up  a  pad  of  paper,  and  wrote  hastily :  "  It 
was  all  a  mistake — I  don't  care  for  you  at  all — not  a  bit! 
I  hope  I  shall  never  have  to  speak  to  you  again."  "  There," 
she  said,  thrusting  it  into  her  mother's  hands.  She  stood 
for  a  moment,  shivering  in  her  thin  nightgown  in  the  icy 
draught,  and  then  jumped  back  into  bed  again. 


"Blow,  Wind;  Swell,  Billow;  Swim,  Bark!"    219 

Her  mother  came  back  in  a  few  moments,  closed  the 
windows,  and  opened  the  register.  There  was  not  in  her 
silence  or  in  a  line  of  her  quiet  presence  the  faintest  hint 
of  curiosity  about  Sylvia's  actions.  She  had  always  main- 
tained in  theory,  and  now  at  this  crisis  with  characteristic 
firmness  of  purpose  acted  upon  her  theory,  that  absolutely 
unforced  confidence  was  the  only  kind  worth  having,  and 
that  moreover,  unless  some  help  was  necessary,  it  might 
be  as  well  for  the  younger  generation  early  to  acquire  the 
strengthening  capacity  to  keep  its  own  intimate  experiences 
to  the  privacy  of  its  own  soul,  and  learn  to  digest  them 
and  feed  upon  them  without  the  dubiously  peptonizing  aid 
of  blundering  adult  counsel.  Sylvia  watched  her  mother 
with  wondering  gratitude.  She  wasn't  going  to  ask !  She 
was  going  to  let  Sylvia  shut  that  ghastly  recollection  into 
the  dark  once  for  all.  She  wasn't  going  by  a  look  or  a 
gesture  to  force  her  helplessly  responsive  child  to  give,  by 
words,  weight  and  substance  to  a  black,  shapeless  horror 
from  which  Sylvia  with  a  vivid  impulse  of  sanity  averted 
her  eyes. 

She  got  out  of  bed  and  put  her  arms  around  her  moth- 
er's neck.  "Say,  Mother,  you  are  great!"  she  said  in 
an  unsteady  voice.  Mrs.  Marshall  patted  her  on  the 
back. 

"  You'd  better  go  and  take  your  bath,  and  have  your 
breakfast,"  she  said  calmly.  "  Judith  and  Lawrence  have 
gone  skating." 

When  Sylvia,  tingling  with  the  tonic  shock  of  cold  water 
and  rough  toweling,  and  rosy  in  her  old  blue  sailor-suit, 
came  downstairs,  she  found  her  mother  frying  pancakes 
for  her  in  the  kitchen  blue  with  smoke  from  the  hot  fat. 
She  was  touched,  almost  shocked  by  this  strange  lapse  from 
the  tradition  of  self-help  of  the  house,  and  said  with  rough 
self-accusation  :  "  My  goodness !  The  idea  of  your  waiting 
on  me!"  She  snatched  away  the  handle  of  the  frying-pan 
and  turned  the  cakes  deftly.  Then,  on  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  spoke  to  her  mother,  standing  by  the  sink.  "  I  came 
back  because  I  found  I  didn't  like  Jerry  Fiske  as  much  as 


220  The  Bent  Twig 

I  thought  I  did.  I  found  I  didn't  like  him  at  all,"  she  said, 
her  eyes  on  the  frying-pan. 

At  this  announcement  her  mother's  face  showed  pale, 
and  for  an  instant  tremulous  through  the  smoke.  She 
did  not  speak  until  Sylvia  lifted  the  cakes  from  the  pan  and 
piled  them  on  a  plate.  At  this  signal  of  departure  into  the 
dining-room  she  commented,  "Well,  I  won't  pretend  that 
I'm  not  very  glad." 

Sylvia  flushed  a  little  and  looked  towards  her  silently. 
She  had  a  partial,  momentary  vision  of  what  the  past  two 
months  must  have  been  to  her  mother.  The  tears  stood  in 
her  eyes.  "  Say,  Mother  dear,"  she  said  in  a  quavering 
voice  that  tried  to  be  light,  "  why  don't  you  eat  some  of 
these  cakes  to  keep  me  company?  It's  'most  ten.  You 
must  have  had  breakfast  three  hours  ago.  It'd  be  fun!  I 
can't  begin  to  eat  all  these." 

"  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  answered  Mrs.  Marshall. 
Sylvia  laughed  at  the  turn  of  her  phrase  and  went  into 
the  dining-room.  Mrs.  Marshall  followed  in  a  moment 
with  a  cup  of  hot  chocolate  and  buttered  toast.  Sylvia 
pulled  her  down  and  kissed  her.  "  You'd  prescribe  hot 
chocolate  for  anything  from  getting  religion  to  a  broken 
leg !  "  she  said,  laughing.  Her  voice  shook  and  her  laugh 
ended  in  a  half-sob. 

"  No — oh  no !  "  returned  her  mother  quaintly.  "  Some- 
times hot  milk  is  better.  Here,  where  is  my  share  of  those 
cakes  ?  "  She  helped  herself,  went  around  the  table,  and 
sat  down.  "  Cousin  Parnelia  was  here  this  morning,"  she 
went  on.  "  Poor  old  idiot,  she  was  certain  that  planchette 
would  tell  who  it  was  that  stole  our  chickens.  I  told 
her  to  go  ahead — but  planchette  wouldn't  write.  Cousin 
Parnelia  laid  it  to  the  blighting  atmosphere  of  skepticism 
of  this  house." 

Sylvia  laughed  again.  Alone  in  the  quiet  house  with  her 
mother,  refreshed  by  sleep,  aroused  by  her  bath,  safe,  shel- 
tered, secure,  she  tried  desperately  not  to  think  of  the 
events  of  the  day  before.  But  in  spite  of  herself  they  came 
back  to  her  in  jagged  flashes — above  all,  the  handsome  blond 


"Blow,  Wind;  Swell,  Billow;  Swim,  Bark!"    221 

face  darkened  by  passion.  She  shivered  repeatedly,  her 
voice  was  quite  beyond  her  control,  and  once  or  twice  her 
hands  trembled  so  that  she  laid  down  her  knife  and  fork. 
She  was  silent  and  talkative  by  turns — a  phenomenon  of 
which  Mrs.  Marshall  took  no  outward  notice,  although  when 
the  meal  was  finished  she  sent  her  daughter  out  into  the 
piercing  December  air  with  the  command  to  walk  six  miles 
before  coming  in.  Sylvia  recoiled  at  the  prospect  of  soli- 
tude. "  Oh,  I'd  rather  go  and  skate  with  Judy  and  Larry !  " 
she  cried. 

"  Well,  if  you  skate  hard  enough,"  her  mother  conceded. 

The  day  after  her  return  Sylvia  had  a  long  letter  from 
Jermain  Fiske,  a  letter  half  apologetic,  half  aggrieved,  pas- 
sionately incredulous  of  the  seriousness  of  the  break  be- 
tween them,  and  wholly  unreconciled  to  it.  The  upshot  of 
his  missive  was  that  he  was  sorry  if  he  had  done  anything 
to  offend  her,  but  might  he  be  everlastingly  confounded 
if  he  thought  she  had  the  slightest  ground  for  complaint! 
Everything  had  been  going  on  so  swimmingly — his  father 
had  taken  the  greatest  notion  to  her — had  said  (the  very 
evening  she'd  cut  and  run  that  queer  way)  that  if  he  mar- 
ried that  rippingly  pretty  Marshall  girl  he  could  have  the 
house  and  estate  at  Mercerton  and  enough  to  run  it  on,  and 
could  practise  as  much  or  as  little  law  as  he  pleased  and 
go  at  once  into  politics — and  now  she  had  gone  and  acted 
so — what  in  the  world  was  the  matter  with  her — weren't 
they  engaged  to  be  married — couldn't  an  engaged  man  kiss 
his  girl — had  he  ever  been  anything  but  too  polite  for  words 
to  her  before  she  had  promised  to  marry  him — and  what 
about  that  promise  anyhow?  His  father  had  picked  out 
the  prettiest  little  mare  in  the  stables  to  give  her  when  the 
engagement  should  be  announced — the  Colonel  was  as  much 
ai:  a  loss  as  he  to  make  her  out — if  the  trouble  was  that 
she  didn't  want  to  live  in  Mercerton,  he  was  sure  the 
Colonel  would  fix  it  up  for  them  to  go  direct  to  Washing- 
ton, where  with  his  father's  connection  she  could  imagine 
what  an  opening  they'd  have !    And  above  all  he  was  crazy 


222  The  Bent  Twig 

about  her — he  really  was !  He'd  never  had  any  idea  what 
it  was  to  be  in  love  before — he  hadn't  slept  a  wink  the  night 
she'd  gone  away — just  tossed  on  his  bed  and  thought  of  her 
and  longed  to  have  her  in  his  arms  again- "  Sylvia  sud- 
denly tore  the  letter  in  two  and  cast  it  into  the  fire,  breath- 
ing hard.  In  answer  she  wrote,  M  It  makes  me  sick  to 
think  of  you !  " 

She  could  not  endure  the  idea  of  "  talking  over  "  the  ex- 
perience with  any  one,  and  struggled  to  keep  it  out  of  her 
mind,  but  her  resolution  to  keep  silence  was  broken  by 
Mrs.  Draper,  who  was  informed,  presumably  by  Jermain 
himself,  of  the  circumstances,  and  encountering  Sylvia  in 
the  street  waited  for  no  invitation  to  confidence  by  the  girl, 
but  pounced  upon  her  with  laughing  reproach  and  insidi- 
ously friendly  ridicule.  Sylvia,  helpless  before  the  graceful 
assurance  of  her  friend,  heard  that  she  was  a  silly  little 
unawakened  schoolgirl  who  was  throwing  away  a  bril- 
liantly happy  and  successful  life  for  the  queerest  and  fun- 
niest of  ignorant  notions.  "  What  did  you  suppose,  you 
baby?  You  wouldn't  have  him  marry  you  unless  he  was 
in  love  with  you,  would  you?  Why  do  you  suppose  a  man 
wants  to  marry  a  woman?  Did  you  suppose  that  men  in 
love  carry  their  sweethearts  around  wrapped  in  cotton- 
wool ?  You're  a  woman  now,  you  ought  to  welcome  life — 
rich,  full-blooded  life — not  take  this  chilly,  suspicious  atti- 
tude toward  it!  Why,  Sylvia,  I  thought  you  were  a  big, 
splendid,  vital,  fearless  modern  girl — and  here  you  are  act- 
ing like  a  little,  thin-blooded  New  England  old  maid.  How 
can  you  blame  Jerry?  He  was  engaged  to  you.  What  do 
you  think  marriage  is?  Oh,  Sylvia,  just  think  what  your 
life  would  be  in  Washington  with  your  beauty  and 
charm !  " 

This  dexterously  aimed  attack  penetrated  Sylvia's  armor 
at  a  dozen  joints.  She  winced  visibly,  and  hung  her  head, 
considering  profoundly.  She  found  that  she  had  nothing 
to  oppose  to  the  other's  arguments.  Mrs.  Draper  walked 
beside  her  in  a  silence  as  dexterous  as  her  exhortation,  her 
hand  affectionately  thrust  through  Sylvia's  arm.     Finally, 


"Blow,  Wind;  Swell,  Billow;  Swim,  Bark!"    223 

Sylvia's  ponderings  continuing  so  long  that  they  were  ap- 
proaching the  Marshall  house,  in  sight  of  which  she  had  no 
mind  to  appear,  she  gave  Sylvia's  arm  a  little  pat,  and 
stood  still.  She  said  cheerfully,  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to 
minimize  the  whole  affair  into  the  smallest  of  passing  in- 
cidents :  "  Now,  you  queer  darling,  don't  stand  so  in  your 
own  light !  A  word  would  bring  Jerry  back  to  you  now — 
but  I  won't  say  it  will  always.  I  don't  suppose  you've  ever 
considered,  in  your  young  selfishness,  how  cruelly  you  have 
hurt  his  feelings !  He  was  awfully  sore  when  I  saw  him. 
And  Eleanor  Hubert  is  right  on  the  spot  with  Mamma 
Hubert  in  the  background  to  push." 

Sylvia  broke  her  silence  to  say  in  a  low  tone,  blushing 
scarlet,  "He  was — horrid!" 

Mrs.  Draper  dropped  her  light  tone  and  said  earnestly: 
"  Dear  little  ignorant  Sylvia — you  don't  recognize  life  when 
you  see  it.  That's  the  way  men  are — all  men — and  there's 
no  use  thinking  it  horrid  unless  you're  going  into  a  con- 
vent. It's  not  so  bad  either, — once  you  get  the  hang 
of  managing  it — it's  a  hold  on  them.  It's  a  force,  like  any 
other  force  of  nature  that  you  can  either  rebel  against,  or 
turn  to  your  account  and  make  serviceable,  if  you'll  only 
accept  it  and  not  try  to  quarrel  with  water  for  running 
downhill.  As  long  as  she  herself  isn't  carried  away  by  it, 
it's  a  weapon  in  the  hand  of  a  clever  woman.  Oniy  the 
stupid  women  get  hurt  by  it — the  silly  ones  who  can't 
keep  their  heads.  And  after  all,  my  dear,  it  is  a  force  of 
nature — and  you're  too  intelligent  not  to  know  that  there's 
no  use  fighting  against  that.  It's  just  idiotic  and  puritanic 
to  revolt  from  it — and  doesn't  do  any  good  besides !  "  She 
looked  keenly  into  Sylvia's  downcast,  troubled  face,  and 
judged  it  a  propitious  moment  for  leaving  her.  "  Good-bye, 
darling,"  she  said,  with  a  final  pat  on  the  shoulder. 

Sylvia  walked  slowly  into  the  house,  her  heart  like  lead. 
Her  food  had  no  savor  to  her.  She  did  not  know  what 
she  was  eating,  nor  what  her  mother,  the  only  one  at  home 
for  lunch,  was  saying  to  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact  Mrs. 
Marshall  said  very  little,  even  less  than  was  her  custom, 


224  The  Bent  Twig 

Her  face  had  the  look  of  terrible,  patient  endurance  it  had 
worn  during  the  time  when  Lawrence  had  had  pneumonia, 
and  his  life  had  hung  in  the  balance  for  two  days ;  but  she 
went  quietly  about  her  usual  household  tasks. 

After  the  meal  was  over,  Sylvia  continued  to  sit  alone 
at  the  table,  staring  palely  down  at  the  tablecloth,  her  mind 
full  of  Mrs.  Draper's  illuminating  comments  on  life,  which 
had  gone  through  her  entire  system  like  a  dexterously  ad- 
ministered drug.  And  yet  that  ingenious  lady  would  have 
been  surprised  to  know  how  entirely  her  attack  had  failed 
in  the  one  point  which  seemed  to  her  important,  the  possi- 
bility of  a  reconciliation  between  Sylvia  and  Jermain.  The 
girl  was  deeply  under  the  impression  made  by  the  philos- 
ophy of  the  older  woman;  she  did  not  for  the  moment 
dream  of  denying  its  truth ;  but  she  stood  granite  in  a  per- 
fectly illogical  denial  of  its  implications  in  her  own  case. 
She  did  not  consciously  revolt  against  the  suggestion  that 
she  renew  her  relations  to  Jerry  Fiske,  because  with  a 
united  action  of  all  her  faculties  she  refused  utterly  to 
consider  it  for  an  instant.  She  would  no  more  have  been 
persuaded  to  see  Jerry  again,  by  a  consideration  of  the 
material  advantages  to  be  gained,  than  she  could  have  been 
persuaded  to  throw  herself  down  from  the  housetop.  That 
much  was  settled,  not  by  any  coherent  effort  of  her  brain, 
but  by  a  co-ordination  of  every  instinct  in  her,  by  the  action 
of  her  whole  being,  by  what  her  life  had  made  her. 

But  that  certainty  brought  her  small  comfort  in  the 
blackness  of  the  hour.  What  hideous  world  was  this  in 
which  she  had  walked  unawares  until  now !  Mrs.  Draper's 
jaunty,  bright  acceptance  of  it  affected  her  to  moral  nausea. 
All  the  well-chosen  words  of  her  sophisticated  friend  were 
imbedded  in  the  tissue  of  her  brain  like  grains  of  sand  in 
an  eyeball.  She  could  not  see  for  very  pain.  And  yet  her 
inward  vision  was  lurid  with  the  beginning  of  understand- 
ing of  the  meaning  of  those  words,  lighted  up  as  they  were 
by  her  experience  of  the  day  before,  now  swollen  in  her 
distraught  mind  to  the  proportions  of  a  nightmare :  "  It's  a 
weapon  in  the  hand  of  a  clever  woman — it's  not  so  bad 


"  Blow,  Wind ;  Swell,  Billow ;  Swim,  Bark ! "    225 

once  you  get   the  hang  of  managing  it — it's   a  hold   on 

men "    Sylvia  turned  whiter  and  whiter  at  the  glimpse 

she  had  had  of  what  was  meant  by  Mrs.  Draper's  lightly 
evasive  "  it " ;  a  comprehension  of  which  all  her  "  ad- 
vanced "  reading  and  study  had  left  her  mind  as  blankly 
ignorant  as  a  little  child's.  Now  it  was  vain  to  try  to  shut 
her  thoughts  away  from  Jermain.  She  lived  over  and  over 
the  scene  with  him,  she  endured  with  desperate  passivity 
the  recollection  of  his  burning  lips  on  her  bosom,  his 
ringers  pressing  into  her  side.  Why  not,  if  every  man  was 
like  that  as  soon  as  he  dared?  Why  not,  if  that  was  all 
that  men  wanted  of  women  ?  Why  not,  if  that  was  the  sole 
ghastly  reality  which  underlay  the  pretty-smooth  surface  of 
life? 

And  beyond  this  bleak  prospect,  which  filled  her  with 
dreary  horror,  there  rose  glimpsed  vistas  which  sent  the 
shamed  blood  up  to  her  face  in  a  flood — if  every  man  was 
like  that,  why,  so  were  the  men  she  had  known  and  loved 
and  trusted ;  old  Reinhardt,  who  seemed  so  simple,  what 
had  been  his  thoughts  when  he  used  years  ago  to  take  her 
on  his  knee — what  were  his  thoughts  now  when  he  bent 
over  her  to  correct  her  mistakes  on  the  piano? 

The  expression  of  Colonel  Fiske's  eyes,  as  he  had  com- 
plimented her,  brought  her  to  her  feet  with  a  shudder — but 
Colonel  Fiske  was  an  old,  old  man — as  old  as  Professor 
Kennedy — 

Why,  perhaps  Professor  Kennedy — perhaps — she  flung 
out  her  arms — perhaps  her  father — 

She  ran  to  the  piano  as  to  a  refuge,  meaning  to  drown 
out  these  maddening  speculations,  which  were  by  this  time 
tinctured  with  insanity;  but  the  first  chords  she  struck 
jarred  on  her  ear  like  a  discordant  scream.  She  turned 
away  and  stood  looking  at  the  floor  with  a  darkening  face, 
one  hand  at  her  temple. 

Her  mother,  darning  stockings  by  the  window,  suddenly 
laid  down  her  work  and  said :  "  Sylvia,  how  would  you 
like    to    walk   with   me    over   to    the    Martins'    to   see    if 


226  The  Bent  Twig 

they  have  any  eggs?    Our  hens  have  absolutely  gone  back 
on  us." 

Sylvia  did  not  welcome  this  idea  at  all,  feeling  as  over- 
whelming an  aversion  to  companionship  as  to  solitude,  but 
she  could  think  of  no  excuse,  and  in  an  ungracious  silence 
put  on  her  wraps  and  joined  her  mother,  ready  on  the 
porch,  the  basket  in  her  mittened  hand. 

Mrs.  Marshall's  pace  was  always  swift,  and  on  that  crisp, 
cold,  sunny  day,  with  the  wind  sweeping  free  over  the  great 
open  spaces  of  the  plain  about  them,  she  walked  even  more 
rapidly  than  usual.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  Sylvia,  quite 
as  tall  as  her  mother  now,  and  as  vigorous,  stepped  be- 
side her,  not  noticing  their  pace,  nor  the  tingling  of  the 
swift  blood  in  her  feet  and  hands.  Her  fresh  young  face 
was  set  in  desolate  bitterness. 

The  Martins'  house  was  about  six  miles  from  the  Mar- 
snails'.  It  was  reached,  the  eggs  procured,  and  the  return 
begun.  Still  not  a  word  had  been  exchanged  between  the 
two  women.  Airs.  Marshall  would  have  been  easily  capable, 
under  the  most  ordinary  circumstances,  of  this  long  self- 
contained  silence,  but  it  had  worked  upon  Sylvia  like  a 
sojourn  in  the  dim  recesses  of  a  church.  She  felt  moved, 
stirred,  shaken.  But  it  was  not  until  the  brief  winter  sun 
was  beginning  to  set  red  across  the  open  reaches  of  field 
and  meadow  that  her  poisoned  heart  overflowed.     "  Oh, 

Mother !  "  she  exclaimed  in  an  unhappy  tone,  and  said 

no  more.     She  knew  no  words  to  phrase  what  was  in  her 
mind. 

14  Yes,  dear,"  said  her  mother  gently.  She  looked  at  her 
daughter  anxiously,  expectantly,  with  a  passion  of  yearn- 
ing in  her  eyes,  but  she  said  no  more  than  those  two  words. 

There  was  a  silence.  Sylvia  was  struggling  for  expres- 
sion. They  continued  to  walk  swiftly  through  the  cold, 
ruddy,  sunset  air,  the  hard-frozen  road  ringing  beneath 
their  rapid  advance.  Sylvia  clasped  her  hands  together 
hard  in  her  muff.  She  felt  that  something  in  her  heart 
was  dying,  was  suffocating  for  lack  of  air,  and  yet  that  it 
would  die  if  she  brought  it  to  light.     She  could  find  no 


"Blow,  Wind;  Swell,  Billow;  Swim,  Bark!"    227 

words  at  all  to  ask  for  help,  agonizing  in  a  shy  reticence 
impossible  for  an  adult  to  conceive.  Finally,  beginning  at 
random,  very  hurriedly,  looking  away,  she  brought  out, 
faltering,  "  Mother,  is  it  true  that  all  men  are — that  when 
a  girl  marries  she  must  expect  to — aren't  there  any  men 

who "     She  stopped,  burying  her  burning  face  in  her 

muff. 

Her  words,  her  tone,  the  quaver  of  desperate  sincerity  in 
her  accent,  brought  her  mother  up  short.  She  stopped 
abruptly  and  faced  the  girl.  "  Sylvia,  look  at  me ! "  she 
said  in  a  commanding  voice  which  rang  loud  in  the  frosty 
silences  about  them.  Sylvia  started  and  looked  into  her 
mother's  face.  It  was  moved  so  darkly  and  so  deeply 
from  its  usual  serene  composure  that  she  would  have  re- 
coiled in  fear,  had  she  not  been  seized  upon  and  held 
motionless  by  the  other's  compelling  eyes. 

M  Sylvia,"  said  her  mother,  in  a  strong,  clear  voice, 
acutely  contrasted  to  Sylvia's  muffled  tones,  "  Sylvia,  it's  a 
lie  that  men  are  nothing  but  sensual!  There's  nothing  in 
marriage  that  a  good  girl  honestly  in  love  with  a  good 
man  need  fear." 

*  But — but "  began  Sylvia,  startled  out  of  her  shy- 
ness. 

Her  mother  cut  her  short.  Anything  that's  felt  by 
decent  men  in  love  is  felt  just  as  truly,  though  maybe  not 
always  so  strongly,  by  women  in  love.  And  if  a  woman 
doesn't  feel  that  answer  in  her  heart  to  what  he  feels — why, 
he's  no  mate  for  her.  Anything's  better  for  her  than  going 
on.  And,  Sylvia,  you  mustn't  get  the  wrong  idea.  Sensual 
feeling  isn't  bad  in  itself.  It's  in  the  world  because  we 
have  bodies  as  well  as  minds — it's  like  the  root  of  a  plant. 
But  it  oughtn't  to  be  a  very  big  part  of  the  plant.  And  it 
must  be  the  root  of  the  woman's  feeling  as  well  as  the 
man's,  or  everything's  all  wrong." 

"  But  how  can  you  tell! "  burst  out  Sylvia. 

"  You  can  tell  by  the  way  you  feel,  if  you  don't  lie  to 
yourself,  or  let  things  like  money  or  social  position  count. 
If  an  honest  girl  shrinks  from  a  man  instinctively,  there's 


228  The  Bent  Twig 

something  not  right — sensuality  is  too  big  a  part  of  what 
the  man  feels  for  her — and  look  here,  Sylvia,  that's  not 
always  the  man's  fault.  Women  don't  realize  as  they 
ought  how  base  it  is  to  try  to  attract  men  by  their  bodies," 
she  made  her  position  clear  with  relentless  precision,  "  when 

they  wear  very  low-necked  dresses,  for  instance "     At 

this  chance  thrust,  a  wave  of  scarlet  burst  up  suddenly  over 
Sylvia's  face,  but  she  could  not  withdraw  her  eyes  from 
her  mother's  searching,  honest  gaze,  which,  even  more  than 
her  words,  spoke  to  the  girl's  soul.  The  strong,  grave 
voice  went  on  unhesitatingly.  For  once  in  her  life  Mrs. 
Marshall  was  speaking  out.  She  was  like  one  who  wel- 
comes the  opportunity  to  make  a  confession  of  faith. 
"  There's  no  healthy  life  possible  without  some  sensual 
feeling  between  the  husband  and  wife,  but  there's  nothing 
in  the  world  more  awful  than  married  life  when  it's  the 
only  common  ground/' 

Sylvia  gazed  with  wide  eyes  at  the  older  woman's  face, 
ardent,  compelling,  inspired,  feeling  too  deeply,  to  realize 
it  wholly,  the  vital  and  momentous  character  of  the  moment. 
She  seemed  to  see  nothing,  to  be  aware  of  nothing  but  her 
mother's  heroic  eyes  of  truth;  but  the  whole  scene  was 
printed  on  her  mind  for  all  her  life — the  hard,  brown  road 
they  stood  on,  the  grayed  old  rail-fence  back  of  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall, a  field  of  brown  stubble,  a  distant  grove  of  beech- 
trees,  and  beyond  and  around  them  the  immense  sweeping 
circle  of  the  horizon.  The  very  breath  of  the  pure,  scentless 
winter  air  was  to  come  back  to  her  nostrils  in  after  years. 

"  Sylvia,"  her  mother  went  on,  "  it  is  one  of  the  responsi- 
bilities of  men  and  women  to  help  each  other  to  meet  on  a 
high  plane  and  not  on  a  low  one.  And  on  the  whole — 
health's  the  rule  of  the  world — on  the  whole,  that's  the 
way  the  larger  number  of  husbands  and  wives,  imperfect  as 
they  are,  do  live  together.  Family  life  wouldn't  be  possible 
a  day  if  they  didn't." 

Like  a  strong  and  beneficent  magician,  she  built  up  again 
and  illuminated  Sylvia's  black  and  shattered  world.  "  Your 
father  is  just  as  pure  a  man  as  I  am  a  woman,  and  I 


"Blow,  Wind;  Swell,  Billow;  Swim,  Bark!"    229 

would  be  ashamed  to  look  any  child  of  mine  in  the  face  if 
he  were  not.  You  know  no  men  who  are  not  decent — 
except  two — and  those  you  did  not  meet  in  your  parents' 
home." 

For  the  first  time  she  moved  from  her  commanding  atti- 
tude of  prophetic  dignity.  She  came  closer  to  Sylvia,  but 
although  she  looked  at  her  with  a  sudden  sweetness  which 
affected  Sylvia  like  a  caress,  she  but  made  one  more  im- 
personal statement :  "  Sylvia  dear,  don't  let  anything  make 
you  believe  that  there  are  not  as  many  decent  men  in  the 
world  as  women,  and  they're  just  as  decent.  Life  isn't 
worth  living  unless  you  know  that — and  it's  true."  Ap- 
parently she  had  said  all  she  had  to  say,  for  she  now 
kissed  Sylvia  gently  and  began  again  to  walk  forward. 

The  sun  had  completely  set,  and  the  piled-up  clouds  on 
the  horizon  flamed  and  blazed.  Sylvia  stood  still,  looking 
at  them  fixedly.  The  great  shining  glory  seemed  reflected 
from  her  heart,  and  cast  its  light  upon  a  regenerated  world 
— a  world  which  she  seemed  to  see  for  the  first  time. 
Strange,  in  that  moment  of  intensely  personal  life,  how 
her  memory  was  suddenly  flooded  with  impersonal  im- 
pressions of  childhood,  little  regarded  at  the  time  and 
long  since  forgotten,  but  now  recurring  to  her  with  the 
authentic  and  uncontrovertible  brilliance  which  only  first- 
hand experiences  in  life  can  bring  with  them — all  those 
families  of  her  public-school  mates,  the  plain,  ugly  homes 
in  and  out  of  which  she  had  come  and  gone,  with  eyes 
apparently  oblivious  of  all  but  childish  interests,  but  really 
recording  life-facts  which  now  in  her  hour  of  need  stretched 
under  her  feet  like  a  solid  pathway  across  an  oozing  marsh. 
All  those  men  and  women  whom  she  had  seen  in  a  thousand 
unpremeditated  acts,  those  tired-faced,  kind-eyed,  unlettered 
fathers  and  mothers  were  not  breathing  poisoned  air,  were 
not  harboring  in  their  simple  lives  a  ghastly  devouring  wild- 
beast.  She  recalled  with  a  great  indrawn  breath  all  the 
farmer-neighbors,  parents  working  together  for  the  chil- 
dren, the  people  she  knew  so  well  from  long  observation 
of  their  lives,   whose   mediocre,   struggling  existence  had 


230  The  Bent  Twig 

filled  her  with  scornful  pity,  but  whom  now  she  recalled 
with  a  great  gratitude  for  the  explicitness  of  the  revelations 
made  by  their  untutored  plainness.  For  all  she  could  ever 
know,  the  Drapers  and  the  Fiskes  and  the  others  of  their 
world  might  be  anything,  under  the  discreet  reticence  of 
their  sophistication ;  but  they  did  not  make  up  all  the  world. 
She  knew,  from  having  breathed  it  herself,  the  wind  of 
health  which  blew  about  those  other  lives,  bare  and  open 
to  the  view,  as  less  artless  lives  were  not.  There  was  some 
other  answer  to  the  riddle,  beside  Mrs.  Draper's. 

Sylvia  was  only  eighteen  years  old  and  had  the  childish 
immaturity  of  her  age,  but  her  life  had  been  so  ordered  that 
she  was  not,  even  at  eighteen,  entirely  in  the  helpless  posi- 
tion of  a  child  who  must  depend  on  the  word  of  others. 
She  had  accumulated,  unknown  to  herself,  quite  apart  from 
polished  pebbles  of  book-information,  a  small  treasury  of 
living  seeds  of  real  knowledge  of  life,  taken  in  at  first-hand, 
knowledge  of  which  no  one  could  deprive  her.  The  realiza- 
tion of  this  was  a  steadying  ballast  which  righted  the  wildly 
rolling  keel  under  her  feet.  She  held  up  her  head  bravely 
against  the  first  onslaught  of  the  storm.  She  set  her  hand 
to  the  rudder ! 

Perceiving  that  her  mother  had  passed  on  ahead  of  her 
she  sprang  forward  in  a  run.  She  ran  like  a  schoolboy,  like 
a  deer,  like  a  man  from  whose  limbs  heavy  shackles  have 
been  struck  off.  She  felt  so  suddenly  lightened  of  a  great 
heaviness  that  she  could  have  clapped  her  hands  over  her 
head  and  bounded  into  the  air.  She  was,  after  all,  but 
eighteen  years  old,  and  three  years  before  had  been  a  child. 

She  came  up  to  her  mother  with  a  rush,  radiating  life. 
Mrs.  Marshall  looked  at  the  glowing  face  and  her  own 
eyes,  dry  till  then,  filled  with  the  tears  so  rare  in  her  self- 
controlled  life.  She  put  out  her  hand,  took  Sylvia's,  and 
they  sped  along  through  the  quick-gathering  dusk,  hand- 
in-hand  like  sisters. 

Judith  and  Lawrence  had  reached  home  before  them, 
and  the  low  brown  house  gleamed  a  cheerful  welcome  to 
them  from  shining  windows.    For  the  first  time  in  her  life, 


"Blow,  Wind;  Swell,  Billow;  Swim,  Bark!"    231 

Sylvia  did  not  take  for  granted  her  home,  with  all  that  it 
meant.  For  an  instant  it  looked  strangely  sweet  to  her. 
She  had  a  passing  glimpse,  soon  afterwards  lost  in  other 
impressions,  of  how  in  after  years  she  would  look  back  on 
the  roof  which  had  sheltered  and  guarded  her  youth. 

She  lay  awake  that  night  a  long  time,  staring  up  into  the 
cold  blackness,  her  mind  very  active  and  restless  in  the 
intense  stillness  about  her.  She  thought  confusedly  but 
intensely  of  many  things — the  months  behind  her,  of  Jerry, 
of  Mrs.  Draper,  of  her  yellow  dress,  of  her  mother — of 
herself.  In  the  lucidity  of  those  silent  hours  of  wakeful- 
ness she  experienced  for  a  time  the  piercing,  regenerating 
thrust  of  self-knowledge.  For  a  moment  the  full-beating 
pulses  of  her  youth  slackened,  and  between  their  throbs 
there  penetrated  to  her  perplexed  young  heart  the  rarest 
of  human  emotions,  a  sincere  humility.  If  she  had  not 
burned  the  yellow  dress  at  Mercerton,  she  would  have 
arisen  and  burned  it  that  night.  .  .  . 

During  the  rest  of  the  Christmas  vacation  she  avoided 
being  alone.  She  and  Judith  and  Lawrence  skated  a  great 
deal,  and  Sylvia  learned  at  last  to  cut  the  grapevine  pat- 
tern on  the  ice.  She  also  mastered  the  first  movement  of 
the  Sonata  Pathetique,  so  that  old  Reinhardt  was  almost 
satisfied. 

The  day  after  the  University  opened  for  the  winter  term 
the  Huberts  announced  the  engagement  of  their  daughter 
Eleanor  to  Jermain  Fiske,  Jr.,  the  brilliant  son  of  that  dis- 
tinguished warrior  and  statesman,  Colonel  Jermain  Fiske. 
Sylvia  read  this  announcement  in  the  Society  Column  of  the 
La  Chance  Morning  Herald,  with  an  enigmatic  expression 
on  her  face,  and  betaking  herself  to  the  skating-pond,  cut 
grapevines  with  greater  assiduity  than  ever,  and  with  a 
degree  of  taciturnity  surprising  in  a  person  usually  so 
talkative.  That  she  had  taken  the  first  step  away  from  the 
devouring  egotism  of  childhood  was  proved  by  the  fact  that 
at  least  part  of  the  time,  this  vigorous  young  creature, 
swooping  about  the  icy  pond  like  a  swallow,  was  thinking 
pityingly  of  Eleanor  Hubert's  sweet  face. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SOME  YEARS  DURING  WHICH  NOTHING 
HAPPENS 

Judith  had  said  to  the  family,  taking  no  especial,  pains 
that  her  sister  should  not  hear  her,  "  Well,  folks,  now  that 
Sylvia's  got  through  with  that  horrid  Fiske  fellow,  I  do 
hope  we'll  all  have  some  peace !  "  a  remark  which  proved 
to  be  a  prophecy.  They  all,  including  Sylvia  herself,  knew 
the  tranquillity  of  an  extended  period  of  peace. 

It  began  abruptly,  like  opening  a  door  into  a  new  room. 
Sylvia  had  dreaded  the  beginning  of  the  winter  term  and 
the  inevitable  sight  of  Jerry,  the  enforced  crossings  of 
their  paths.  But  Jerry  never  returned  to  his  classes  at  all. 
The  common  talk  was  to  the  effect  that  the  Colonel  had 
"  worked  his  pull "  to  have  Jerry  admitted  to  the  bar  with- 
out further  preliminaries.  After  some  weeks  of  relief,  it 
occurred  to  Sylvia  that  perhaps  Jerry  had  dreaded  meet- 
ing her  as  much  as  she  had  seeing  him.  For  whatever  rea- 
son, the  campus  saw  young  Fiske  no  more,  except  on  the 
day  in  May  when  he  passed  swiftly  across  it  on  his  way  to 
the  Hubert  house  where  Eleanor,  very  small  and  white- 
faced,  waited  for  him  under  a  crown  of  orange  blossoms. 

Sylvia  did  not  go  to  the  wedding,  although  an  invitation 
had  come,  addressed  economically  and  compendiously  to 
"  Professor  and  Mrs.  Marshall  and  family."  It  was  a 
glorious  spring  day  and  in  her  Greek  history  course  they 
had  just  reached  the  battle  of  Salamis,  at  the  magnificent 
recital  of  which  Sylvia's  sympathetic  imagination  leaped  up 
rejoicing,  as  all  sympathetic  imaginations  have  for  all  these 
many  centuries.  She  was  thrilling  to  a  remembered  bit 
of  "  The  Persians  "  as  she  passed  by  the  Hubert  house  late 
that  afternoon.     She  was  chanting  to  herself,  "  The  right 

232 


Years  During  Which  Nothing  Happens     233 

wing,  well  marshaled,  led  on  foremost  in  good  order,  and 
we  heard  a  mighty  shout — '  Sons  of  the  Greeks !  On ! 
Free  your  country ! ' "  She  did  not  notice  that  she  trod 
swiftly  across  a  trail  of  soiled  rice  in  the  Hubert  drive- 
way. 

She  was  like  a  person  recovered  from  a  fever  who  finds 
mere  health  a  condition  of  joy.  She  went  back  to  her  music, 
to  her  neglected  books,  with  a  singing  heart.  And  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  curious  ways  of  Providence,  noted  in  the 
proverb  relating  the  different  fates  of  him  who  hath  and 
him  who  hath  not,  there  was  at  once  added  to  her  pleasure 
in  the  old  elements  of  her  life  the  very  elements  she  had 
longed  for  unavailingly.  Seeing  her  friendly  and  shining 
of  face,  friendliness  went  out  to  her.  She  had  made  many 
new  acquaintances  during  her  brief  glittering  flight  and  had 
innumerable  more  points  of  contact  with  the  University  life 
than  before.  She  was  invited  to  a  quite  sufficient  number  of 
hops  and  proms,  had  quite  the  normal  number  of  masculine 
"  callers/'  and  was  naively  astonished  and  disillusioned  to 
find  that  those  factors  in  life  were  by  no  means  as  entirely 
desirable  and  amusing  as  her  anguished  yearning  had  fan- 
cied them.  She  joined  one  of  the  literary  societies  and  took 
a  leading  part  in  their  annual  outdoor  play.  At  the  begin- 
ning of  her  Junior  year,  Judith  entered  as  a  Freshman  and 
thereafter  became  a  close  companion.  Sylvia  devoured  cer- 
tain of  her  studies,  history,  and  English,  and  Greek,  with 
insatiable  zest  and  cast  aside  certain  others  like  political 
economy  and  physics,  which  bored  her,  mastering  just 
enough  of  their  elements  to  pass  an  examination  and 
promptly  forgetting  them  thereafter.  She  grew  rapidly  in 
intellectual  agility  and  keenness,  not  at  all  in  philosophical 
grasp,  and  emotionally  remained  as  dormant  as  a  potato  in 
a  cellar. 

She  continually  looked  forward  with  a  bright,  vague  in- 
terest to  "  growing  up,"  to  the  mastery  of  life  which 
adolescents  so  trustfully  associate  with  the  arrival  of  adult 
years.  She  spent  three  more  years  in  college,  taking  a  Mas- 
ter's degree  after  her  B.A.,  and  during  those  three  years, 


234  The  Bent  Twig 

through  the  many-colored,  shifting,  kaleidoscopic,  disor- 
ganized life  of  an  immensely  populous  institution  of  learn- 
ing, she  fled  with  rapid  feet,  searching  restlessly  everywhere 
for  that  entity,  as  yet  non-existent,  her  own  soul. 

She  had,  in  short,  a  thoroughly  usual  experience  of  mod- 
ern American  education,  emerging  at  the  end  with  a  vast 
amount  of  information,  with  very  little  notion  of  what  it 
was  all  about,  with  Phi  Beta  Kappa  and  a  great  wonder 
what  she  was  to  do  with  herself. 

Up  to  that  moment  almost  every  step  of  her  life  had 
been  ordered  and  systematized,  that  she  might  the  more 
quickly  and  surely  arrive  at  the  goal  of  her  diploma.  Rush- 
ing forward  with  the  accumulated  impetus  of  years  of 
training  in  swiftly  speeding  effort,  she  flashed  by  the  goal 
.  .  .  and  stopped  short,  finding  herself  in  company  with  a 
majority  of  her  feminine  classmates  in  a  blind  alley. 
u  Now  what  ?  "  they  asked  each  other  with  sinking  hearts. 
Judith  looked  over  their  heads  with  steady  eyes  which  saw 
but  one  straight  and  narrow  path  in  life,  and  passed  on  by 
them  into  the  hospital  where  she  began  her  nurse's  training. 
Sylvia  began  to  teach  music  to  a  few  children,  to  take  on 
some  of  Reinhardt's  work  as  he  grew  older.  She  prac- 
tised assiduously,  advanced  greatly  in  skill  in  music,  read 
much,  thought  acutely,  rebelliously  and  not  deeply,  helped 
Lawrence  with  his  studies  .  .  .  and  watched  the  clock. 

For  there  was  no  denying  that  the  clock  stood  still.  She 
was  not  going  forward  to  any  settled  goal  now,  she  was 
not  going  forward  at  all.  She  was  as  far  from  suspecting 
any  ordered  pattern  in  the  facts  of  life  as  when  she  had 
been  in  college,  surrounded  by  the  conspiracy  of  silence 
about  a  pattern  in  facts  which  university  professors  so  con- 
scientiously keep  up  before  their  students.  She  was  slowly 
revolving  in  an  eddy.  Sometimes  she  looked  at  the  deep, 
glowing  content  of  her  father  and  mother  with  a  fierce  re- 
sentment. "  How  can  they ! "  she  cried  to  herself.  At 
other  times  she  tried  to  chide  herself  for  not  being  as  con- 
tented herself,  "...  but  it's  their  life  they're  living,"  she 
said  moodily,  "and  I  haven't  any  to  live.     I  can't  live  on 


Years  During  Which  Nothing  Happens    235 

their  happiness  any  more  than  the  beefsteaks  somebody 
else  has  eaten  can  keep  me  from  starving  to  death." 

The  tradition  of  her  life  was  that  work  and  plenty  of  it 
would  keep  off  all  uneasiness,  that  it  was  a  foolishness,  not 
to  say  a  downright  crime,  to  feel  uneasiness.  So  she  prac- 
tised many  hours  a  day,  and  took  a  post-graduate  course  in 
early  Latin.     But  the  clock  stood  still. 

One  of  the  assistants  in  her  father's  department  pro- 
posed to  her.  She  refused  him  automatically,  with  a  won- 
dering astonishment  at  his  trembling  hands  and  white  lips. 
Decidedly  the  wheels  of  the  clock  would  never  begin  to 
revolve. 

And  then  it  struck  an  hour,  loudly.  Aunt  Victoria  wrote 
inviting  Sylvia  to  spend  a  few  weeks  with  her  during  the 
summer  at  Lydford. 

Sylvia  read  this  letter  aloud  to  her  mother  on  the  vine- 
covered  porch  where  she  had  sat  so  many  years  before,  and 
repeated  "  star-light,  star-bright  "  until  she  had  remembered 
Aunt  Victoria.  Mrs.  Marshall  watched  her  daughter's  face 
as  she  read,  and  through  the  tones  of  the  clear  eager  voice 
she  heard  the  clock  striking.  It  sounded  to  her  remarkably 
like  a  tolling  bell,  but  she  gave  no  sign  beyond  a  slight 
paling.  She  told  herself  instantly  that  the  slowly  ticking 
clock  had  counted  her  out  several  years  of  grace  beyond 
what  a  mother  may  expect.  When  Sylvia  finished  and 
looked  up,  the  dulled  look  of  resignation  swept  from  her 
face  by  the  light  of  adventurous  change,  her  mother 
achieved  the  final  feat  of  nodding  her  head  in  prompt, 
cheerful  assent. 

But  when  Sylvia  went  away,  light-hearted,  fleeting 
forward  to  new  scenes,  there  was  in  her  mother's  farewell 
kiss  a  solemnity  which  she  could  not  hide.  "  Oh,  Mother 
dear ! "  protested  Sylvia,  preferring  as  always  to  skim  over 
the  depths  which  her  mother  so  dauntlessly  plumbed.  "  Oh, 
Mother  darling !  How  can  you  be  so — when  it's  only  for  a 
few  weeks!" 


BOOK  III 
IN  CAPUA  AT  LAST 

CHAPTER  XXII 
A  GRATEFUL  CARTHAGINIAN 

Arnold  Smith  put  another  lump  of  sugar  on  his  saucer, 
poured  out  a  very  liberal  allowance  of  rum  into  his  tea, 
and  reached  for  a  sandwich,  balancing  the  cup  and  saucer 
with  a  deftness  out  of  keeping  with  his  long,  ungraceful 
loose- jointedness.  He  remarked  in  an  indifferent  tone  to 
Sylvia,  back  of  the  exquisitely  appointed  tea-tray :  "  I  don't 
say  anything  because  I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  you  are 
talking  about.    Who  was  Capua,  anyhow  ?  " 

Sylvia  broke  into  a  peal  of  laughter  which  rang  like  a 
silver  chime  through  the  vine-shaded,  airy  spaces  of  the 
pergola.  Old  Mr.  Sommerville,  nosing  about  in  his  usual 
five-o'clock  quest,  heard  her  and  came  across  the  stretch  of 
sunny  lawn  to  investigate.  "  Oh,  here's  tea !  "  he  remarked 
on  seeing  Arnold,  lounging,  white-flanneled,  over  his  cup. 
He  spoke  earnestly,  as  was  his  custom  when  eating  was  in 
question,  and  Sylvia  served  him  earnestly  and  carefully, 
with  an  instant  harmonious  response  to  his  mood,  putting 
in  exactly  the  right  amount  of  rum  and  sugar  to  suit  his 
taste,  and  turning  the  slim-legged  "  curate's  assistant "  so 
that  his  favorite  sandwiches  were  nearest  him. 

"  You  spoil  the  old  gentlemen,  Sylvia,"  commented  Ar- 
nold, evidently  caring  very  little  whether  she  did  or  not. 

"  She  spoils  everybody,"  returned  Mr.  Sommerville,  tast- 
ing his  tea  complacently ;  " '  c'est  son  metier.'  She  has  an 
uncanny  instinct  for  suiting  everybody's  taste." 

Sylvia  smiled  brightly  at  him,  exactly  the  brilliant  smile 

237 


238  The  Bent  Twig 

which  suited  her  brilliant,  frank  face  and  clear,  wide-open 
eyes.  Under  her  smile  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "  If  that's 
so,  I  wonder — not  that  I  care  at  all — but  I  really  wonder 
why  you  don't  like  me." 

Sylvia  was  encountering  for  the  first  time  this  summer 
a  society  guided  by  tradition  and  formula,  but  she  was  not 
without  excellent  preparation  for  almost  any  contact  with 
her  fellow-beings,  a  preparation  which  in  some  ways  served 
her  better  than  that  more  conscious  preparation  of  young 
ladies  bred  up  from  childhood  to  sit  behind  tea-tables  and 
say  the  right  things  to  tea-drinkers.  Association  with  the 
crude,  outspoken  youth  at  the  State  University  had  been  an 
education  in  human  nature,  especially  masculine  nature,  for 
her  acute  mind.  Her  unvarnished  association  with  the 
other  sex  in  classroom  and  campus  had  taught  her,  by  means 
of  certain  rough  knocks  which  more  sheltered  boarding- 
school  girls  never  get,  an  accuracy  of  estimate  as  to  the 
actual  feeling  of  men  towards  the  women  they  profess  to 
admire  unreservedly  which  (had  he  been  able  to  conceive 
of  it)  old  Mr.  Sommerville  would  have  thought  nothing 
less  than  cynical. 

But  he  did  not  conceive  of  it,  and  now  sat,  mellowed  by 
the  Tightness  of  his  tea,  white-haired,  smooth-shaven,  pink- 
gilled,  white-waistcoated,  the  picture  of  old  age  at  its  best, 
as  he  smiled  gallantly  at  the  extremely  pretty  girl  behind  the 
table.  Unlike  Sylvia  he  knew  exactly  why  he  did  not  like 
her  and  he  wasted  no  time  in  thinking  about  it.  "  What 
were  you  laughing  about,  so  delightfully,  as  I  came  in,  eh  ?  " 
he  asked,  after  the  irretrievable  first  moment  of  joy  in 
gratified  appetite  had  gone. 

Sylvia  had  not  the  slightest  backwardness  about  explain- 
ing. In  fact  she  always  took  the  greatest  pains  to  be  ex- 
plicit with  old  Mr.  Sommerville  about  the  pit  from  which 
she  had  been  digged.  Why,  this  visit  to  Aunt  Victoria 
is  like  stepping  into  another  world  for  me.  Everything  is 
so  different  from  my  home-life.  I  was  just  thinking,  as  I 
sat  there  behind  all  this  glorious  clutter,"  she  waved  a  slim 
hand  over  the  silver  and  porcelain  of  the  tea-table,  "  what 


A  Grateful  Carthaginian  239 

a  change  it  was  from  setting  the  table  one's  self  and  wash- 
ing up  the  dishes  afterwards.  That's  what  we  always  do 
at  home.  I  hated  it  and  I  said  to  Arnold,  '  I've  reached 
Capua  at  last ! '  and  he  said,"  she  stopped  to  laugh  again, 
heartily,  full-throated,  the  not-to-be-imitated  laugh  of  gen- 
uine amusement,  "  he  said,  '  Who  is  Capua,  anyhow  ?  '  " 

Mr.  Sommerville  laughed,  but  grudgingly,  with  an  im- 
patient shake  of  his  white  head  and  an  uneasy  look  in  his 
eyes.  For  several  reasons  he  did  not  like  to  hear  Sylvia 
laugh  at  Arnold.  He  distrusted  a  young  lady  with  too  keen 
a  sense  of  humor,  especially  when  it  was  directed  towards 
the  cultural  deficiencies  of  a  perfectly  eligible  young  man. 
To  an  old  inhabitant  of  the  world,  with  Mr.  Sommerville's 
views  as  to  the  ambitions  of  a  moneyless  young  person, 
enjoying  a  single,  brief  fling  in  the  world  of  young  men 
with  fortunes,  it  seemed  certain  that  Sylvia's  lack  of  tactful 
reticence  about  Arnold's  ignorance  could  only  be  based  on 
a  feeling  that  Arnold's  fortune  was  not  big  enough.  She 
was  simply,  he  thought  with  dismay,  reserving  her  tact  and 
reticence  for  a  not-impossible  bigger.  His  apprehensions 
about  the  fate  of  a  bigger  of  his  acquaintance  if  its  owner 
ever  fell  into  the  hands  of  this  altogether  too  well-informed 
young  person  rose  to  a  degree  which  almost  induced  him  to 
cry  out,  "  Really,  you  rapacious  young  creature,  Arnold's  is 
all  any  girl  need  ask,  ample,  well-invested,  solid.  .  .  ."  But 
instead  he  said,  "  Humph !  Rather  a  derogatory  remark 
about  your  surroundings,  eh  ?  " 

Arnold  did  not  understand,  did  not  even  hear,  leaning 
back,  long,  relaxed,  apathetic,  in  his  great  wicker-chair  and 
rolling  a  cigarette  with  a  detached  air,  as  though  his  hands 
were  not  a  part  of  him.  But  Sylvia  heard,  and  under- 
stood, even  to  the  hostility  in  the  old  gentleman's  well- 
bred  voice.  ''  Being  in  Capua  usually  referring  to  the  fact 
that  the  Carthaginians  went  to  pieces  that  winter  ? "  she 
asked.  "  Oh  yes,  of  course  I  know  that.  Good  gracious !  I 
was  brought  up  on  the  idea  of  the  dangers  of  being  in 
Capua.  Perhaps  that's  why  I  always  thought  it  would  be 
such  fun  to  get  there."    She  spoke  rebelliously. 


240  The  Bent  Twig 

"  They  got  everlastingly  beaten  by  the  Romans,"  ad- 
vanced Mr.  Sommerville. 

"  Yes,  but  they  had  had  one  grand  good  time  before ! 
The  Romans  couldn't  take  that  away  from  them!  I  think 
the  Carthaginians  got  the  best  of  it !  "  Provocative,  light- 
hearted  malice  was  in  her  sparkling  face.  She  was  think- 
ing to  herself  with  the  reckless  bravado  of  youth,  "Well, 
since  he  insists,  I'll  give  him  some  ground  for  distrusting 
my  character !  " 

Arnold  suddenly  emitted  a  great  puff  of  smoke  and  a 
great  shout  of  "  Help !  help !  Molly  to  the  rescue !  "  and 
when  a  little  white-clad  creature  flitting  past  the  door 
turned  and  brought  into  that  quiet  spot  of  leafy  shadow 
the  dazzling  quickness  of  her  smile,  her  eyes,  her  golden 
hair,  he  said  to  her  nonchalantly :  "  Just  in  time  to  head 
them  off.  Sylvia  and  your  grandfather  were  being  so  high- 
brow I  was  beginning  to  feel  faint." 

Molly  laughed  flashingly.  "  Did  Grandfather  keep  his 
end  up  ?    I  bet  he  couldn't !  " 

Arnold  professed  an  entire  ignorance  of  the  relative 
status.  "  Oh,  I  fell  off  so  far  back  I  don't  know  who  got  in 
first.  Who  was  this  man  Capua,  anyhow?  I'm  a  graduate 
of  Harvard  University  and  I  never  heard  of  him." 

"  I'm  a  graduate  of  Miss  Braddon's  Mountain  School  for 
Girls,"  said  Molly,  "  and  /  think  it's  a  river." 

Mr.  Sommerville  groaned  out,  exaggerating  a  real  qualm, 
"What  my  mother  would  have  said  to  such  ignorance, 
prefaced  by  '  I  bet ! '  from  the  lips  of  a  young  lady !  " 

"  Your  mother,"  said  Molly,  "  would  be  my  great-grand- 
mother !  "  She  disposed  of  him  conclusively  by  this  state- 
ment and  went  on :  "  And  I'm  not  a  young  lady.  Nobody 
is  nowadays." 

u  What  are  you,  if  a  mere  grandfather  may  venture  to 
inquire  ? "  asked  Mr.   Sommerville  deferentially. 

"  I'm  a  femme  watt-man,"  said  Molly,  biting  a  large 
piece  from  a  sandwich. 

Arnold  explained  to  the  others :  "  That's  Parisian  for  a 
lady  motor-driver ;  some  name !  " 


A  Grateful  Carthaginian  241 

'*  Well,  you  won't  be  that,  or  anything  else  alive,  if  you  go 
on  driving  your  car  at  the  rate  I  saw  it  going  past  the  house 
this  morning,"  said  her  grandfather.  He  spoke  with  an 
assumption  of  grandfatherly  severity,  but  his  eyes  rested  on 
her  with  a  grandfather's  adoration. 

"  Oh,  I'd  die  if  I  went  under  thirty-five/'  observed  Miss 
Sommerville  negligently. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Sommerville,"  Arnold  backed  up  his  gen- 
eration. "  You  can't  call  thirty-five  per  hour  dangerous, 
not  for  a  girl  who  can  drive  like  Molly." 

"  Oh,  I'm  as  safe  as  if  I  were  in  a  church,"  continued 
Molly.  "  I  keep  my  mind  on  it.  If  I  ever  climb  a  telegraph- 
pole  you  can  be  sure  it'll  be  because  I  wanted  to.  I  never 
take  my  eye  off  the  road,  never  once." 

"  How  you  must  enjoy  the  landscape,"  commented  her 
grandfather. 

"  Heavens !  I  don't  drive  a  car  to  look  at  the  landscape !  " 
cried  Molly,  highly  amused  at  the  idea,  apparently  quite 
new  to  her. 

"  Will  you  gratify  the  curiosity  of  the  older  generation 
once  more,  and  tell  me  what  you  do  drive  a  car  for?"  in- 
quired old  Mr.  Sommerville,  looking  fondly  at  the  girl's 
lovely  face,  like  a  pink-flushed  pearl. 

"  Why,  I  drive  to  see  how  fast  I  can  go,  of  course,"  ex- 
plained Molly.  "  The  fun  of  it  is  to  watch  the  road  eaten 
up." 

"  It  is  fascinating,"  Sylvia  gave  the  other  girl  an  un- 
expected reinforcement.  "  I've  driven  with  Molly,  and  I've 
been  actually  hypnotized  seeing  the  road  vanish  under  the 
wheels." 

"  Oh,  children,  children !  When  you  reach  my  age," 
groaned  Arnold,  "and  have  eaten  up  as  many  thousand 
miles  as  I,  you'll  stay  at  home." 

"  I've  driven  for  three  years  now,"  asserted  Molly,  "  and 
every  time  I  buy  a  new  car  I  get  the  craze  all  over  again. 
This  one  I  have  now  is  a  peach  of  an  eight.  I  never  want 
to  drive  a  six  again, — never!  I  can  bring  it  up  from  a 
creep  to — to  fast  enough  to  scare  Grandfather  into  a  fit, 


242  The  Bent  Twig 

without  changing  gears  at  all— just  on  the  throttle " 

She  broke  off  to  ask,  as  at  a  sudden  recollection,  "  What 
was  it  about  Capua,  anyhow?"  She  went  to  sit  beside 
Sylvia,  and  put  her  arm  around  her  shoulder  in  a  caressing 
gesture,  evidently  familiar  to  her. 

"  It  wasn't  about  Capua  at  all,"  explained  Sylvia  indul- 
gently, patting  the  lovely  cheek,  as  though  the  other  girl  had 
been  a  child.  "  It  was  your  grandfather  finding  out  what 
a  bad  character  I  am,  and  how  I  wallow  in  luxury,  now  I 
have  the  chance." 

"  Luxury  ? "  inquired  Molly,  looking  about  her  rather 
blankly. 

Sylvia  laughed,  this  time  with  a  little  veiled,  pensive  note 
of  melancholy,  lost  on  the  others  but  which  she  herself 
found  very  touching.  "  There,  you  see  you're  so  used  to  it, 
you  don't  even  know  what  I'm  talking  about ! " 

"  Never  mind,  Molly,"  Arnold  reassured  hen  "  Neither 
do  I !    Don't  try  to  follow ;  let  it  float  by,  the  way  I  do !  " 

Miss  Sommerville  did  not  smile.  She  thrust  out  her  red 
lips  in  a  wistful  pout,  and  looking  down  into  the  sugar-bowl 
intently,  she  remarked,  her  voice  as  pensive  as  Sylvia's 
own:  I  wish  I  did!  I  wish  I  understood!  I  wish  I  were 
as  clever  as  Sylvia ! " 

As  if  in  answer  to  this  remark,  another  searcher  after 
tea  announced  himself  from  the  door — a  tall,  distinguished, 
ugly,  graceful  man,  who  took  a  very  fine  Panama  hat  from  , 
a  very  fine  head  of  brown  hair,  slightly  graying,  and  said 
in  a  rich,  cultivated  voice :  "  Am  I  too  late  for  tea  ?  I  don't 
mind  at  all  if  it's  strong." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Molly  Sommerville,  flushing  and  drawing 
away  from  Sylvia;  "Lord!"  muttered  Arnold  under  his 
breath ;  and  "  Not  at  all.  I'll  make  some  fresh.  I  haven't 
had  mine  yet,"  said  Sylvia,  busying  herself  with  the  alcohol 
flame. 

"  How're  you,  Morrison  ?  "  said  Mr.  Sommerville  with 
no  enthusiasm,  holding  out  a  well-kept  old  hand  for  the 
other  to  shake. 

Arnold  stood  up,  reached  under  his  chair,  and  pulled  out 


A  Grateful  Carthaginian  243 

a  tennis  racquet.  "  Excuse  me,  Morrison,  won't  you,  if  I 
run  along?"  he  said.  "It's  not  because  you've  come.  I 
want  a  set  of  tennis  before  dinner  if  I  can  find  somebody 
to  play  with  me.  Here,  Molly,  you've  got  your  tennis  shoes 
on  already.    Come  along." 

The  little  beauty  shook  her  head  violently.  "  No  .  .  . 
goodness  no!  It's  too  hot.  And  anyhow,  I  don't  ever 
want  to  play  again,  since  I've  seen  Sylvia's  game."  She 
turned  to  the  other  girl,  breathing  quickly.  "  You  go,  Sylvia 
dear.    I'll  make  Mr.  Morrison's  tea  for  him." 

Sylvia  hesitated  a  barely  perceptible  instant,  until  she  saw 
old  Mr.  Sommerville's  eyes  fixed  speculatively  on  her. 
Then  she  stood  up  with  an  instant,  cheerful  alacrity. 
"  That's  awfully  good  of  you,  Molly  darling !  You  won't 
mind,  will  you,  Mr.  Morrison ! "  She  nodded  brightly  to 
the  old  gentleman,  to  the  girl  who  had  slipped  into  her 
place,  to  the  other  man,  and  was  off. 

The  man  she  had  left  looked  after  her,  as  she  trod  with 
her  long,  light  step  beside  the  young  man,  and  murmured, 
"  Et  vera  incessu  patuit  dea." 

Molly  moved  a  plate  on  the  table  with  some  vehemence. 
"  I  suppose  Sylvia  would  understand  that  language." 

*  She  would,  my  dear  Molly,  and  what's  more,  she  would 
scorn  me  for  using  such  a  hackneyed  quotation."  To  Mr. 
Sommerville  he  added,  laughing,  "  Isn't  it  the  quaintest 
combination — such  radiant  girlhood  and  her  absurd  book- 
learning  !  " 

Mr.  Sommerville  gave  his  assent  to  the  quaintness  by 
silence,  as  he  rose  and  prepared  to  retreat. 

"  Good-bye,  Grandfather,"  said  Molly  with  enthusiasm. 

As  they  walked  along,  Arnold  was  saying  to  Sylvia  with 
a  listless  appreciation :  "  You  certainly  know  the  last  word 
of  the  game,  don't  you,  Sylvia  ?  I  bet  Morrison  hasn't  had 
a  jolt  like  that  for  years." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  perhaps 
slightly  overdoing  her  ignorance  of  his  meaning. 

"  Why,  it's  a  new  thing  for  him,  let  me  tell  you,  to  have 


244  The  Bent  Twig 

a  girl  jump  up  as  soon  as  he  comes  in  and  delightedly  leave 
him  to  another  girl.  And  then  to  thank  the  other  girl  for 
being  willing  to  take  him  off  your  hands, — that's  more  than 
knowing  the  rules, — that's  art ! "  He  laughed  faintly  at 
the  recollection.  "  It's  a  new  one  for  Morrison  to  meet  a 
girl  who  doesn't  kowtow.  He's  a  very  great  personage  in 
his  line,  and  he  can't  help  knowing  it.  The  very  last  word 
on  Lord-knows-what-all  in  the  art  business  is  what  one 
Felix  Morrison  says  about  it.  He's  an  eight-cylinder 
fascinator  too,  into  the  bargain.  Mostly  he  makes  me  sore, 
but  when  I  think  about  him  straight,  I  wonder  how  he 
manages  to  keep  on  being  as  decent  as  he  is — he's  really 
a  good  enough  sort! — with  all  the  high-powered  petti- 
coats in  New  York  burning  incense.  It's  enough  to  turn 
the  head  of  a  hydrant.  That's  the  hold  Madrina  has  on 
him.  She  doesn't  burn  any  incense.  She  wants  all  the 
incense  there  is  being  burned,  for  herself ;  and  it  keeps  old 
Felix  down  in  his  place — keeps  him  hanging  around  too. 
You  stick  to  the  same  method  if  you  want  to  make  a  go 
of  it." 

"  I  thought  he  wrote.  I  thought  he  did  gesthetic  criticisms 
and  essays,"  said  Sylvia,  laughing  aloud  at  Arnold's  quaint 
advice. 

"  Oh,  he  does.  I  guess  he's  chief  medicine-man  in  his 
tribe  all  right.  It's  not  only  women  who  kowtow ;  when  old 
man  Merriman  wants  to  know  for  sure  whether  to  pay  a 
million  for  a  cracked  Chinese  vase,  he  always  calls  in  Felix 
Morrison.  Chief  adviser  to  the  predatory  rich,  that's  one 
of  his  jobs !  So  you  see,"  he  came  back  to  his  first  point, 
"  it  must  be  some  jolt  for  the  sacred  F.  M.  to  have  a  young 
lady,  just  a  young  lady,  refuse  to  bow  at  the  shrine.  You 
couldn't  have  done  a  smarter  trick,  by  heck!  I've  been 
watching  you  all  those  weeks,  just  too  tickled  for  words. 
And  I've  been  watching  Morrison.  It's  been  as  good  as  a 
play!  He  can't  stick  it  out  much  longer,  unless  I  miss 
my  guess,  and  I've  known  him  ever  since  I  was  a  kid.  He's 
just  waiting  for  a  good  chance  to  turn  on  the  faucet  and 
hand  you  a  full  cup  of  his  irresistible  fascination."     He 


A  Grateful  Carthaginian  245 

added  carelessly,  bouncing  a  ball  up  and  down  on  the  tense 
catgut  of  his  racquet :  "  What  all  you  girls  see  in  that  old 
wolf-hound,  to  lose  your  heads  over !    It  gets  me !  " 

"  Why  in  the  world  '  wolf-hound  '  ?  "  asked  Sylvia. 

"  Oh,  just  as  to  his  looks.  He  has  that  sort  of  tired, 
dignified,  deep-eyed  look  a  big  dog  has.  I  bet  his  eyes 
would  be  phosphorescent  at  night  too.  They  are  that  kind ; 
don't  you  know,  when  you  strike  a  match  in  the  evening, 
how  a  dog's  eyes  glow?  It's  what  makes  'em  look  so 
soft  and  deep  in  the  daytime.  But  as  to  his  innards — no, 
Lord  no !  Whatever  else  Morrison  is  he's  not  a  bit  like 
any  dog  that  ever  lived — first  cousin  to  a  fish,  I  should 
say." 

Sylvia  laughed.  "  Why  not  make  it  grizzly  bear,  to  take 
in  the  rest  of  the  animal  kingdom  ?  " 

"  No,"  persisted  Arnold.  "  Now  I've  thought  of  it,  I 
mean  fish,  a  great  big,  wise  old  fellow,  who  lives  in  a  deep 
pool  and  won't  rise  to  any  ordinary  fly."  He  made  a 
brain-jolting  change  of  metaphor  and  went  on :  "  The  plain 
truth,  and  it's  not  so  low-down  as  it  seems,  is  that  a  big 
fat  check-book  is  admission  to  the  grandstand  with  Felix. 
It  has  to  be  that  way!  He  hasn't  got  much  of  his  own, 
and  his  tastes  are  some " 

"  Molly  must  be  sitting  in  the  front  row,  then,"  com- 
mented Sylvia  indifferently,  as  though  tired  of  the  sub- 
ject. They  were  now  at  the  tennis-court.  "  Run  over  to 
the  summer-house  and  get  my  racquet,  will  you?  It's  on 
the  bench." 

"  Yes,  Molly's  got  plenty  of  money,"  Arnold  admitted 
is  he  came  back,  his  accent  implying  some  other  lack  which 
he  forgot  to  mention,  absorbed  as  he  at  once  became  in 
coping  with  his  adversary's  strong,  swift  serve. 

The  change  in  him,  as  he  began  seriously  to  play,  was 
startling,  miraculous.  His  slack  loose- jointedness  stiffened 
into  quick,  flexible  accuracy,  his  lounging,  flaccid  air  dis- 
appeared in  a  glow  of  concentrated  vigorous  effort.  The 
bored  good-nature  in  his  eyes  vanished,  burned  out  by  a 
stern,  purposeful  intensity.     He  was  literally  and  visibly 


246  The  Bent  Twig 

another  person.  Sylvia  played  her  best,  which  was  excel- 
lent, far  better  than  that  of  any  other  girl  in  the  summer 
colony.  She  had  been  well  trained  by  her  father  and  her 
gymnasium  instructor,  and  played  with  an  economy  of 
effort  delightful  to  see;  but  she  was  soon  driven  by  her 
opponent's  tiger-like  quickness  into  putting  out  at  once  her 
every  resource.  There,  in  the  slowly  fading  light  of  the 
long  mountain  afternoon,  the  two  young  Anglo-Saxons 
poured  out  their  souls  in  a  game  with  the  immemorial  in- 
stinct of  their  race,  fierce,  grim,  intent,  every  capacity  of 
body  and  will-power  brought  into  play,  everything  else  in 
the  world  forgotten.  .  .  . 

For  some  time  they  were  on  almost  equal  terms,  and 
then  Sylvia  became  aware  that  her  adversary  was  getting 
the  upper  hand  of  her.  She  had,  however,  no  idea  what 
the  effort  was  costing  him,  until  after  a  blazing  fire  of  im- 
possibly rapid  volleys  under  which  she  went  down  to  de- 
feat, she  stopped,  called  out,  "  Game  and  set ! "  and  added 
in  a  generous  tribute,  "  Say,  you  can  play ! "  Then  she 
saw  that  his  face  was  almost  purple,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  and 
his  breath  came  in  short,  gasping  pants.  "  Good  gracious, 
what's  the  matter !  "  she  cried,  running  towards  him  in 
alarm.  She  was  deeply  flushed  herself,  but  her  eyes  were 
as  clear  as  clear  water,  and  she  ran  with  her  usual  fawn- 
like swiftness.  Arnold  dropped  on  the  bench,  waving  her  a 
speechless  reassurance.  With  his  first  breath  he  said, 
"  Gee !  but  you  can  hit  it  up,  for  a  girl !  " 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  ? "  Sylvia  asked  again, 
sitting  down  beside  him. 

"  Nothing !  Nothing !  "  he  panted.  "  My  wind !  It's  con- 
foundedly short."  He  added  a  moment  later,  "  It's  tobacco 
— this  is  the  sort  of  time  the  cigarettes  get  back  at  you> 
you  know ! "  The  twilight  dropped  slowly  about  them  like 
a  thin,  clear  veil.  He  thrust  out  his  feet,  shapely  in  their 
well-made  white  shoes,  surveved  them  with  dissatisfaction, 
and  added  with  moody  indifference :  "  And  cocktails  too. 
They  play  the  dickens  with  a  fellow's  wind." 

Sylvia  said  nothing  for  a  moment,  looking  at  him  by  no 


A  Grateful  Carthaginian  247 

means  admiringly.  Her  life  in  the  State  University  had 
brought  her  into  such  incessant  contact  with  young  men 
that  the  mere  fact  of  sitting  beside  one  in  the  twilight 
left  her  unmoved  to  a  degree  which  Mr.  Sommerville's 
mother  would  have  found  impossible  to  imagine.  When 
she  spoke,  it  was  with  an  impatient  scorn  of  his  weakness, 
which  might  have  been  felt  by  a  fellow-athlete:  "What 
in  the  world  makes  you  do  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  said  challengingly. 

"  You've  just  said  why  not — it  spoils  your  tennis. 
It  must  spoil  your  polo.  Was  that  what  spoiled  your 
baseball  in  college?  You'd  be  twice  the  man  if  you 
wouldn't." 

"  Oh,  what's  the  use  ?  "  he  said,  an  immense  weariness 
in  his  voice. 

"  What's  the  use  of  anything,  if  you  are  going  to  use 
that  argument?"  said  Sylvia,  putting  him  down  con- 
clusively. 

He  spoke  with  a  sudden  heartfelt  simplicity,  "  Damn  'f  I 
know,  Sylvia."  For  the  first  time  in  all  the  afternoon,  his 
voice  lost  its  tonelessness,  and  rang  out  with  the  resonance 
of  sincerity. 

She  showed  an  unflattering  surprise.  "  Why,  I  didn't 
know  you  ever  thought  about  such  things." 

He  looked  at  her  askance,  dimly  amused.  "  High  opinion 
you  have  of  me !  " 

She  looked  annoyed  at  herself  and  said  with  a  genuine 
good-will  in  her  voice,  "  Why,  Arnold,  you  know  I've  al- 
ways liked  you." 

"  You  like  me,  but  you  don't  think  much  of  me,"  he 
diagnosed  her,  "  and  you  show  your  good  sense."  He 
looked  up  at  the  picturesque  white  house,  spreading  its 
well-proportioned  bulk  on  the  top  of  the  terraced  hillside 
before  them.  "  I  hope  Madrina  is  looking  out  of  a  window 
and  sees  us  here,  our  heads  together  in  the  twilight.  You've 
guessed,  I  suppose,  that  she  had  you  come  on  here  for  my 
benefit.  She  thinks  she's  tried  everything  else, — now 
it's  her  idea  to  get  me  safely  married.     She'd  have  one 


248  The  Bent  Twig 

surprise,  wouldn't  she,  if  she  could  hear  what  we're 
saying !  " 

"  Well,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  you,"  remarked 
Sylvia,  as  entirely  without  self-consciousness  as  though 
they  were  discussing  the  tennis  game. 

He  was  tickled  by  her  coolness.  "  Well,  Madrina  sure 
made  a  mistake  when  she  figured  on  you!"  he  commented 
ironically.  And  then,  not  having  been  subjected  to  the 
cool,  hardy  conditions  which  caused  Sylvia's  present  clear- 
headedness, he  felt  his  blood  stirred  to  feel  her  there,  so 
close,  so  alive,  so  young,  so  beautiful  in  the  twilight.  He 
leaned  towards  her  and  spoke  in  a  husky  voice,  "  See  here, 
Sylvia,  why  don't  you  try  it !  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense ! "  said  the  girl,  not  raising  her  voice  at 
all,  not  stirring.     "  You  don't  care  a  bit  for  me." 

*  Yes,  I  do !  I've  always  liked  you !  "  he  said,  not  per- 
ceiving till  after  the  words  were  out  of  his  mouth  that  he 
had  repeated  her  own  phrase. 

She  laughed  to  hear  it,  and  he  drew  back,  his  faint  stir- 
ring of  warmth  dashed,  extinguished.  "  The  fact  is, 
Sylvia,"  he  said,  "you're  too  nice  a  girl  to  fall  in  love 
with." 

"  What  a  horrid  thing  to  say !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"About  you?"  he  defended  himself.  "I  mean  it  as  a 
compliment." 

"  About  falling  in  love,"  she  said. 

"  Oh !  "  he  said  blankly,  evidently  not  at  all  following  her 
meaning. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?  "  she  now  inquired,  and  on  hearing 
the  hour,  "  Oh,  we'll  be  late  to  dress  for  dinner,"  she  said 
in  concern,  rising  and  ascending  the  marble  steps  to  the 
terrace  next  above  them. 

He  came  after  her,  long,  loose-jointed,  ungraceful.  He 
was  laughing.  "  Do  you  realize  that  I've  proposed  marriage 
to  you  and  you've  turned  me  down  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No  such  a  thing ! "  she  said,  as  lightly  as  he. 

"  It's  the  nearest  /  ever  came  to  it ! "  he  averred. 

She  continued  to  flit  up  the  terraces  before  him,  her 


A  Grateful  Carthaginian  249 

voice  rippling  with  amusement  dropping  down  on  him 
through  the  dusk.  "  Well,  you'll  have  to  come  nearer  than 
that,  if  you  ever  want  to  make  a  go  of  it ! "  she  called  over 
her  shoulder.  Upon  which  note  this  very  modern  con- 
versation ended. 


CHAPTER  XXIM 
MORE  TALK  BETWEEN  YOUNG  MODERNS 

When  they  met  at  dinner,  they  laughed  outright  at  the 
sight  of  one  another,  a  merry  and  shadowless  laugh.  For 
an  instant  they  looked  like  light-hearted  children.  The 
change  of  Arnold's  long  sallow  face  was  indeed  so  notice- 
able that  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  glanced  sharply  at  him,  and 
then  looked  again  with  great  satisfaction.  She  leaned  to 
Sylvia  and  laid  her  charming  white  hand  affectionately 
over  the  girl's  slim,  strong,  tanned  fingers.  "  It's  just  a  joy 
to  have  you  here,  my  dear.  You're  brightening  us  stupid, 
bored  people  like  fresh  west  wind !  "  She  went  on  address- 
ing herself  to  the  usual  guest  of  the  evening :  "  Isn't  it  al- 
ways the  most  beautiful  sight,  Felix,  how  the  mere  presence 
of  radiant  youth  can  transform  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
life ! " 

"  I  hadn't  noticed  that  my  radiant  youth  had  trans- 
formed much,"  commented  Arnold  dryly;  "and  Sylvia's 
only  a  year  younger  than  I." 

He  was,  as  usual,  disregarded  by  the  course  of  the  con- 
versation. "  Yes,  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  .  .  ."  quoted 
Morrison,  in  his  fine  mellow  tenor,  looking  at  Sylvia.  It 
was  a  wonderful  voice,  used  with  discretion,  with  a  fine 
instinct  for  moderation  which  would  have  kept  the  haunt- 
ing beauty  of  its  intonations  from  seeming  objectionable 
or  florid  to  any  but  American  ears.  In  spite  of  the 
invariable  good  taste  with  which  it  was  used,  American 
men,  accustomed  to  the  toneless  speech  of  the  race,  and 
jealously  suspicious  of  anything  approaching  art  in  every- 
day life,  distrusted  Morrison  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice. 
Men  who  were  his  friends  (and  they  were  many)  were  in 
the  habit  of  rather  apologizing  for  those  rich  and  harmo- 

250 


More  Talk  Between  Young  Moderns     251 

nious  accents.  The  first  time  she  had  heard  it,  Sylvia  had 
thought  of  the  G  string  of  old  Reinhardt's  violin. 

"  I  never  in  my  life  saw  anything  that  looked  less  like  a 
shady  place,"  observed  Sylvia,  indicating  with  an  admiring 
gesture  the  table  before  them,  gleaming  and  flashing  its 
glass  and  silver  and  close-textured,  glossy  damask  up  into 
the  light. 

"  It's  morally  that  we're  so  shady ! "  said  Arnold,  admir- 
ing his  own  wit  so  much  that  he  could  not  refrain  from 
adding,  "  Not  so  bad,  what  ?  "  The  usual  conversation  at 
his  stepmother's  table  was,  as  he  would  have  said,  so  pes- 
tilentially high-brow  that  he  seldom  troubled  himself  to 
follow  it  enough  to  join  in.  Arnold  was  in  the  habit  of 
dubbing  "  high-brow  "  anything  bearing  on  aesthetics ;  and 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  conversational  range  hardly  extend- 
ing at  all  outside  of  aesthetics  of  one  kind  or  another,  com- 
munication between  these  two  house-mates  of  years'  stand- 
ing was  for  the  most  part  reduced  to  a  primitive  simplicity 
for  which  a  sign-language  would  have  sufficed.  Arnold's 
phrase  for  the  situation  was,  "  I  let  Madrina  alone,  and  she 
don't  bother  me."  But  now,  seeing  that  neither  the  facade 
of  Rouen,  nor  the  influence  of  Chardin  on  Whistler,  had 
been  mentioned,  his  unusual  loquacity  continued.  "  Well,  if 
one  west  wind  (I  don't  mean  that  as  a  slam  on  Sylvia  for 
coming  from  west  of  the  Mississippi)  has  done  us  so  much 
good,  why  not  have  another  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  Why  couldn't 
Judith  come  on  and  make  us  a  visit  too?  It  would  be  fun 
to  have  a  scrap  with  her  again."  He  explained  to  Mor- 
rison: "  She's  Sylvia's  younger  sister,  and  we  always  quar- 
reled so,  as  kids,  that  after  we'd  been  together  half  an 
hour  the  referee  had  to  shoulder  in  between  and  tell  us, 
*  Nix  on  biting  in  clinches.'  She  was  great,  all  right,  Judith 
was !  How  is  she  now  ?  "  he  asked  Sylvia.  "  I've  been 
meaning  ever  so  many  times  to  ask  you  about  her,  and 
something  else  has  seemed  to  come  up.  I  can't  imagine 
Judy  grown  up.  She  hasn't  pinned  up  that  great  long 
braid,  has  she,  that  used  to  be  so  handy  to  pull  ?  " 

Sylvia  took  the  last  of  her  soup,  put  the  spoon  on  the; 


252  The  Bent  Twig 

plate,  and  launched  into  a  description  of  Judith,  one  of 
her  favorite  topics.  "Oh,  Judith's  just  Hue!  You  ought 
to  see  her !  She's  worth  ten  of  me :  she  has  such  lots  of 
character !  And  handsome  !  You  never  saw  anything  like 
Judith's  looks.  Yes,  she's  put  her  hair  up!  She's  twenty- 
years  old  now,  what  do  you  suppose  she  does  with  her  hair? 
She  wears  it  in  a  great  smooth  braid  all  around  her  head. 
And  she  has  such  hair,  Aunt  Victoria !  "  She  turned  from 
Arnold  to  another  woman,  as  from  some  one  who  would 
know  nothing  of  the  fine  shades  of  the  subject.  "  No  short 
hairs  at  all,  you  know,  like  everybody  else,  that  will  hang 
down  and  look  untidy !  "  She  pulled  with  an  explanatory 
petulance  at  the  soft  curls  which  framed  her  own  face  in 
an  aureole  of  light.  "  Hers  is  all  long  and  smooth,  and  the 
color  like  a  fresh  chestnut,  just  out  of  the  burr;  and  her 
nose  is  like  a  Greek  statue — she  is  a  Greek  statue !  " 

She  had  been  carried  by  her  affectionate  enthusiasm  out 
of  her  usual  self-possession,  her  quick  divination  of 
how  she  was  affecting  everybody,  and  now,  suddenly  find- 
ing Morrison's  eyes  on  her  with  an  expression  she  did  not 
recognize,  she  was  brought  up  short.  What  had  she  said 
to  make  him  look  at  her  so  oddly  ? 

He  answered  her  unspoken  question  at  once,  his  voice 
making  his  every  casual  word  of  gold :  "  I  am  thinking 
that  I  am  being  present  at  a  spectacle  which  cynics  say  is 
impossible,  the  spectacle  of  a  woman  delighting — and  with 
the  most  obvious  sincerity — in  the  beauty  of  another." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Sylvia,  relieved  to  know  that  the  odd  look 
concealed  no  criticism,  "  I  didn't  know  that  anybody  nowa- 
days made  such  silly  Victorian  generalizations  about 
woman's  cattiness, — anybody  under  old  Mr.  Sommerville's 
age,  that  is.    And  anyhow,  Judith's  my  sister." 

"  Cases  of  sisters,  jealous  of  each  other's  good  looks, 
have  not  been  entirely  unknown  to  history,"  said  Morrison, 
smiling  and  beginning  to  eat  his  fish  with  a  delicate  relish. 

"  Well,  if  Judy's  so  all-fired  good-looking,  let's  have  her 
come  on,  Madrina,"  said  Arnold.  "  With  her  and  Sylvia 
together,  we'd  crush  Lydford  into  a  pulp."     He  attacked 


More  Talk  Between  Young  Moderns     253 

liis  plate  with  a  straggling  fork,  eating  negligently,  as  he 
did  everything  else. 

"  She  has  a  standing  invitation,  of  course,"  said  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith.  "  Indeed,  I  wrote  the  other  day,  asking 
her  if  she  could  come  here  instead  of  to  La  Chance  for 
her  vacation.     It's  far  nearer  for  her." 

*  Oh,  Judith  couldn't  waste  time  to  go  visiting/'  said 
Sylvia.  "  I've  told  you  she  is  worth  ten  of  me.  She's  on 
the  home-stretch  of  her  trained-nurse's  course  now.  She 
has  only  two  weeks'  vacation." 

"  She's  going  to  be  a  trained  nurse  ?  "  asked  Arnold  in 
surprise,  washing  down  a  large  mouthful  of  fish  with  a 
large  mouthful  of  wine.  "  What  the  dickens  does  she  do 
that  for?" 

"  Why,  she's  crazy  about  it, — ever  since  she  was  a  little 
girl,  fifteen  years  old  and  first  saw  the  inside  of  a  hospital. 
That's  just  Judith, — so  splendid  and  purposeful,  and 
single-minded.  I  wish  to  goodness  /  knew  what  I  want 
to  do  with  myself  half  so  clearly  as  she  always  has." 

If  she  had,  deep  under  her  consciousness,  a  purpose  to 
win  more  applause  from  Morrison,  by  more  disinterested 
admiration  of  Judith's  good  points,  she  was  quite  rewarded 
by  the  quickness  with  which  he  championed  her  against  her 
own  depreciation.  "  I've  always  noticed,"  he  said  medita- 
tively, slowly  taking  a  sip  from  his  wine-glass,  "  that  no- 
body can  be  single-minded  who  isn't  narrow-minded;  and 
I  think  it  likely  that  people  who  aren't  so  cocksure  what 
they  want  to  do  with  themselves,  hesitate  because  they  have 
a  great  deal  more  to  do  with.  A  nature  rich  in  fine  and 
complex  possibilities  takes  more  time  to  dispose  of  itself, 
but  when  it  does,  the  world's  beauty  is  the  gainer."  He 
pointed  the  reference  frankly  by  a  smile  at  Sylvia,  who 
flushed  with  pleasure  and  looked  down  at  her  plate.  She 
was  surprised  at  the  delight  which  his  leisurely,  whim- 
sically philosophical  little  speech  gave  her.  She  forgot 
to  make  any  answer,  absorbed  as  she  was  in  poring  over 
it  and  making  out  new  meanings  in  it.  How  he  had 
understood  at  less  than  a  word  the  secret  uncertainty  of 


254  The  Bent  Twig 

herself  which  so  troubled  her;  and  with  what  astonishing 
sureness  he  had  known  what  to  say  to  reassure  her,  to  make 
her  see  clear!  And  then,  her  quick  mind  leaped  to  an- 
other significance.  .  .  .  All  during  these  past  weeks  when 
she  had  been  falling  more  and  more  under  the  fascination 
of  his  personality,  when  she  had  been  piqued  at  his  dis- 
regard of  her,  when  she  had  thought  he  found  her  "  young," 
and  had  bracketed  her  carelessly  with  Arnold,  he  had  been 
in  reality  watching  her,  he  had  found  her  interesting  enough 
to  observe  her,  to  study  her,  to  have  a  theory  about  her 
character;  and  having  done  all  that,  to  admire  her  as  she 
admired  him.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  been  the  recipient 
of  flattery  so  precisely  to  her  taste.  Her  glow  of  pleasure 
was  so  warm  that  she  suddenly  distrusted  her  own  judg- 
ment, she  looked  up  at  him  quickly  to  see  if  she  had  not 
mistaken  his  meaning,  had  not  absurdly  exaggerated  the 
degree  to  which  he  .  .  .  she  found  his  eyes  on  hers,  deep- 
set,  shadowy  eyes  which  did  not,  as  she  looked  up,  either 
smile  or  look  away.  Under  cover  of  a  rather  wrangling  dis- 
cussion between  Arnold  and  his  stepmother  as  to  having 
some  champagne  served,  the  older  man  continued  to  look 
steadily  into  Sylvia's  eyes,  with  the  effect  of  saying  to  her, 
gravely,  kindly,  intimately :  "  Yes,  I  am  here.  You  did 
not  know  how  closely  you  have  drawn  me  to  you,  but  here 
I  am."  Across  the  table,  across  the  lights,  the  service,  the 
idle  talk  of  the  other  two,  she  felt  him  quietly,  ever  so 
gently  but  quite  irresistibly,  open  an  inner  door  of  her 
nature  .  .  .  and  she  welcomed  him  in. 

After  dinner,  when  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  lifted  her  eye- 
brows at  Sylvia  and  rose  to  go,  Arnold  made  no  bones  of 
his  horror  at  the  prospect  of  a  tete-a-tete  with  the  dis- 
tinguished critic.  "  Oh,  I'm  going  in  with  you  girls !  "  he 
said,  jumping  up  with  his  usual  sprawling  uncertainty  of 
action.  He  reserved  for  athletic  sports  all  his  capacity  for 
physical  accuracy.  "  Morrison  and  I  bore  each  other  more 
than's  legal ! " 

"  I  may  bore  you,  my  dear  Arnold,"  said  the  other,  ris- 


More  Talk  Between  Young  Moderns     255 

ing,  "  but  you  never  bored  me  in  your  life,  and  I've  known 
you  from  childhood." 

To  which  entirely  benevolent  speech,  Arnold  returned 
nothing  but  the  uneasy  shrug  and  resentful  look  of  one 
baffled  by  a  hostile  demonstration  too  subtle  for  his  powers 
of  self-defense.  He  picked  up  the  chair  he  had  thrown 
over,  and  waited  sulkily  till  the  others  were  in  the  high- 
ceilinged  living-room  before  he  joined  them.  Then  when 
Morrison,  in  answer  to  a  request  from  his  hostess  and  old 
friend,  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  began  to  play  a  piece 
of  modern,  plaintive,  very  wandering  and  chromatic  music, 
the  younger  man  drew  Sylvia  out  on  the  wide,  moon-lighted 
veranda. 

"  Morrison  is  the  very  devil  for  making  you  want  to 
punch  his  head,  and  yet  not  giving  you  a  decent  excuse. 
I  declare,  Sylvia,  I  don't  know  but  that  what  I  like  best 
of  all  about  you  is  the  way  you  steer  clear  of  him.  He's 
opening  up  on  you  too.  Maybe  you  didn't  happen  to 
notice  ...  at  the  dinner-table?  It  wasn't  much,  but  I 
spotted  it  for  a  beginning.  I  know  old  Felix,  a  few." 
Sylvia  felt  uneasy  at  the  recurrence  of  this  topic,  and  cast 
about  for  something  to  turn  the  conversation.  "  Oh,  Ar- 
nold," she  began,  rather  at  random,  "  whatever  became  of 
Professor  Saunders?  I've  thought  about  him  several  times 
since  I've  been  here,  but  I've  forgotten  to  ask  you  or 
Tantine.     He  was  my  little-girl  admiration,  you  know." 

Arnold  smoked  for  a  moment  before  answering.  Then, 
"  Well,  I  wouldn't  ask  Madrina  about  him,  if  I  were  you. 
He's  not  one  of  her  successes.     He  wouldn't  stay  put." 

Sylvia  scented  something  uncomfortable,  and  regretted 
having  introduced  the  subject. 

Arnold  added  thoughtfully,  looking  hard  at  the  ash  of 
his  cigarette,  "  I  guess  Madrina  was  pretty  bad  medicine 
for  Saunders,  all  right." 

Sylvia  shivered  a  little  and  drew  back,  but  she  instantly 
put  the  matter  out  of  her  mind  with  a  trained  and  definite 
action  of  her  will.'  It  was  probably  "  horrid";  nothing 
could  be  done  about  it  now;  what  else  could  they  talk 


256  The  Bent  Twig 

about  that  would  be  cheerful  ?  This  was  a  thought-sequence 
very  familiar  to  Sylvia,  through  which  she  passed  with 
rapid  ease. 

Arnold  made  a  fresh  start  by  offering  her  his  cigarette- 
box.     "  Have  one,"  he  invited  her,  sociably. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  all  the  girls  do,"  he  urged  her. 

Sylvia  laughed.  "  I  may  be  a  fresh  breeze  from  beyond 
the  Mississippi,  but  I'm  not  so  fresh  as  to  think  it's  wicked 
for  a  girl  to  smoke.  In  fact  I  like  to,  myself,  but  I  can't 
stand  the  dirty  taste  in  my  mouth  the  next  morning. 
Smoking's  not  worth  it." 

"  Well  ..."  commented  Arnold.  Apparently  he  found 
something  very  surprising  in  this  speech.  His  surprise 
spread  visibly  from  the  particular  to  the  general,  like  the 
rings  widening  from  a  thrown  pebble,  and  he  finally  broke 
out :  "  You  certainly  do  beat  the  band,  Sylvia.  You  get 
met  You're  a  sample  off  a  piece  of  goods  that  I  never  saw 
before !  " 

"  What  now  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  amused. 

"  Why,  for  instance, — that  reason  for  your  not  smoking. 
That's  not  a  girl's  reason.  That's  a  man's  ...  a  man 
who's  tried  it !  " 

"  No,  it  isn't !  "  she  said,  the  flicker  of  amusement  still 
on  her  lips.  "  A  man  wouldn't  have  sense  enough  to  know 
that  smoking  isn't  worth  waking  up  with  your  mouth  full 
of  rancid  fur." 

"Oh  gosh!"  cried  Arnold,  tickled  by  the  metaphor: 
"  rancid  fur !  " 

'*  The  point  about  me,  why  I  seem  so  queer  to  you,"  ex- 
plained Sylvia,  brightening,  "  is  that  I'm  a  State  University 
girl.  I'm  used  to  you.  I've  seen  hundreds  of  you!  The 
fact  that  you  wear  trousers  and  have  to  shave  and  wear 
your  hair  cut  short,  and  smell  of  tobacco,  doesn't  thrill  me 
for  a  cent.  I  know  that  I  could  run  circles  around  you  if  it 
came  to  a  problem  in  calculus,  not  that  I  want  to  brag." 

Arnold  did  not  seem  as  much  amused  as  she  thought 
he  would  be.     He  smoked  in  a  long,  meditative  silence, 


More  Talk  Between  Young  Moderns     257 

and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  with  an  unusual  seri- 
ousness. "  It's  not  what  you  feel  or  don't  feel  about 
me  .  .  .  it's  what  /  feel  and  don't  feel  about  you,  that  gets 
me,"  he  explained,  not  very  lucidly.  "  I  mean  liking  you 
so,  without  ...  I  never  felt  so  about  a  girl.  I  like  it. 
...  I  don't  make  it  out.  .  .  ."  He  looked  at  her  with 
sincerely  puzzled  eyes. 

She  answered  him  as  seriously.  "  I  think,"  she  said, 
speaking  a  little  slowly,  "  I  think  the  two  go  together,  don't 
they?" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  he  asked. 

"  Why — it's  hard  to  say "  she  hesitated,  but  evidently 

not  at  all  in  embarrassment,  looking  at  him  with  serious 
eyes,  limpid  and  unafraid.  "Tve  been  with  boys  and  men 
a  lot,  of  course,  in  my  classes  and  in  the  laboratories  and 
everywhere,  and  I've  found  out  that  in  most  cases  if  the 
men  and  the  girls  really,  really  in  their  own  hearts  don't 
want  to  hurt  each  other,  don't  want  to  get  something  out 
of  the  other,  but  just  want  to  be  friends — why,  they  can  be ! 
Psychologists  and  all  the  big-wigs  say  they  can't  be,  I 
know — but,  believe  me  ! — I've  tried  it — and  it's  awfully 
nice,  and  it's  a  shame  that  everybody  shouldn't  know  that 
lots  of  the  time  you  can  do  it — in  spite  of  the  folks  who 
write  the  books !  Maybe  it  wasn't  so  when  the  books  were 
written,  maybe  it's  only  going  to  be  so,  later,  if  we  all  are 
as  square  as  we  can  be  now.  But  as  a  plain  matter  of  fact, 
in  one  girl's  experience,  it's  so,  now!  Of  course,"  she 
modified  by  a  sweeping  qualification  the  audacity  of  her 
naively  phrased,  rashly  innocent  guess  at  a  new  possibility 
for  humanity,  "  of  course  if  the  man's  a  decent  man." 

Arnold  had  not  taken  his  gaze  for  an  instant  from  her 
gravely  thoughtful  eyes.  He  was  quite  pale.  He  looked 
astonishingly  moved,  startled,  arrested.  When  she  stopped, 
he  said,  almost  at  once,  in  a  very  queer  voice  as  though 
it  were  forced  out  of  him,  "  I'm  not  a  decent  man." 

And  then,  quite  as  though  he  could  endure  no  longer  her 
clear,  steady  gaze,  he  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  An 
instant  later  he  had  sprung  up  and  walked  rapidly  away 


258  The  Bent  Twig 

out  to  the  low  marble  parapet  which  topped  the  terrace. 
His  gesture,  his  action  had  been  so  eloquent  of  surprised, 
intolerable  pain,  that  Sylvia  ran  after  him,  all  one  quick 
impulse  to  console.  "  Yes,  you  are,  Arnold ;  yes,  you  are !  " 
she  said  in  a  low,  energetic  tone,  "  you  are!" 

He  made  a  quavering  attempt  to  be  whimsical.  "  I'd  like 
to  know  what  you  know  about  it !  "  he  said. 

"I  know!  I  know!"  she  simply  repeated. 

He  faced  her  in  an  exasperated  shame.  "  Why,  a  girl 
like  you  can  no  more  know  what's  done  by  a  man  like 
me  .  .  ."  his  lips  twitched  in  a  moral  nausea. 

"  Oh  .  .  .  what  you've  done  .  .  ."  said  Sylvia  ..."  it's 
what  you  are !  " 

"  What  I  am"  repeated  Arnold  bitterly.  "  If  I  were  worth 
my  salt  I'd  hang  myself  before  morning!  "  The  heart-sick 
excitement  of  a  man  on  the  crest  of  some  moral  crisis  looked 
out  luridly  from  his  eyes. 

Sylvia  rose  desperately  to  meet  that  crisis.  "  Look  here, 
Arnold.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something  I've  never  spoken 
of  to  anybody  .  .  .  not  even  Mother  .  .  .  and  I'm  going 
to  do  it,  so  you'll  believe  me  when  I  say  you're  worth  liv- 
ing. When  I  was  eighteen  years  old  I  was  a  horrid,  selfish, 
self-willed  child.  I  suppose  everybody's  so  at  eighteen.  I 
was  just  crazy  for  money  and  fine  dresses  and  things  like 
that,  that  we'd  never  had  at  home;  and  a  man  with  a  lot 
of  money  fell  in  love  with  me.  It  was  my  fault.  I  made 
him,  though  I  dic^'t  know  then  what  I  was  doing,  or  at 
least  I  wouldn't  let  myself  think  what  I  was  doing.  And 
I  got  engaged  to  him.  I  got  engaged  at  half-past  four  in 
the  afternoon,  and  at  seven  o'clock  that  evening  I  was 
running  away  from  him,  and  I've  never  seen  him  since." 
Her  voice  went  on  steadily,  but  a  quick  hot  wave  of  scarlet 
flamed  up  over  her  face.  "  He  was  not  a  decent  man,"  she 
said  briefly,  and  went  on :  "  It  frightened  me  almost  to 
death  before  I  got  my  bearings :  I  was  just  a  little  girl  and 
I  hadn't  understood  anything — and  I  don't  understand 
much  now.  But  I  did  learn  one  thing  from  all  that — I 
learned  to  know  when  a  man  isn't  decent.    I  can't  tell  you 


More  Talk  Between  Young  Moderns     259 

how  I  know — it's  all  over  him — it's  all  over  me — it's  his 
eyes,  the  way  he  stands,  the  expression  of  his  mouth — I 
don't  only  see  it — I  feel  it — I  feel  it  the  way  a  thermom- 
eter feels  it  when  you  put  a  match  under  the  bulb  ...  I 
know!  "  She  brought  her  extravagant,  her  preposterous,  her 
ignorant,  her  incredibly  convincing  claims  to  an  abrupt  end. 

"  And  you  '  feel '  that  I  .  .  ."  began  Arnold,  and  could 
not  go  on. 

"  I'd  like  you  for  my  brother,"  she  said  gently. 

He  tried  to  laugh  at  her,  but  the  honest  tears  were  in 
his  eyes.  "You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about, 
you  silly  dear,"  he  said  unsteadily,  "  but  I'm  awfully  glad 
you  came  to  Lydford." 

With  her  instinct  for  avoiding  breaks,  rough  places,  Syl- 
via quickly  glided  into  a  transition  from  this  speech  back 
into  less  personal  talk.  "  Another  queer  thing  about  that 
experience  I've  never  understood: — it  cured  me  of  being 
so  crazy  about  clothes.  You  wouldn't  think  it  would  have 
anything  to  do  with  that,  would  you  ?  And  I  don't  see  how 
it  did.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  I  don't  dearly  love  pretty  dresses 
now.  I  do.  And  I  spend  altogether  too  much  time  think- 
ing about  them — but  it's  not  the  same.  Somehow  the 
poison  is  out.  I  used  to  be  like  a  drunkard  who  can't  get 
a  drink,  when  I  saw  girls  have  things  I  didn't.  I  suppose," 
she  speculated  philosophically,  "  I  suppose  any  great  jolt 
that  shakes  you  up  a  lot,  shakes  things* into  different  pro- 
portions." * 

"  Say,  that  fellow  must  have  been  just  about  the  limit! " 
Arnold's  rather  torpid  imagination  suddenly  opened  to  the 
story  he  had  heard. 

"  No,  no !  "  said  Sylvia.  "  As  I  look  back  on  it,  I  make 
a  lot  more  sense  out  of  it"  (she  might  have  been,  by  her 
accent,  fifty  instead  of  twenty-three),  "and  I  can  see  that 
he  wasn't  nearly  as  bad  as  I  thought  him.  When  I  said  he 
wasn't  decent,  I  meant  that  he  belonged  in  the  Stone  Age, 
and  I'm  twentieth-century.  We  didn't  fit  together.  I  sup- 
pose that's  what  we  all  mean  when  we  say  somebody  isn't 
decent  .  .  .  that  he's  stayed  behind  in  the  procession.     I 


260  The  Bent  Twig 

don't  mean  that  man  was  a  degenerate  or  anything  like  that 
...  if  he  could  have  found  a  Stone  Age  woman  he'd 
have  .  .  .  they'd  have  made  a  good  Stone  Age  marriage  of 
it.    But  he  didn't,  the  girl  he  .  .  ." 

"  Do  you  know,  Sylvia,"  Arnold  broke  in  wonderingly, 
"  I  never  before  in  all  my  life  had  anybody  speak  to  me  of 
anything  that  really  mattered.  And  I  never  spoke  this  way 
myself.  I've  wanted  to,  lots  of  times;  but  I  didn't  know 
people  ever  did.  And  to  think  of  its  being  a  girl  who  does 
it  for  me,  a  girl  who  .  .  ."    His  astonishment  was  immense. 

"  Look  here,  Arnold,"  said  Sylvia,  with  a  good-natured 
peremptoriness.  "  Let  a  girl  be  something  besides  a  girl, 
can't  you ! " 

But  her  attempt  to  change  the  tone  to  a  light  one  failed. 
Apparently,  now  that  Arnold  had  broken  his  long  silence,  he 
could  not  stop  himself.  He  turned  towards  her  with  a 
passionate  gesture  of  bewilderment  and  cried :  "  Do  you 
remember,  before  dinner,  you  asked  me  as  a  joke  what  was 
the  use  of  anything,  and  I  said  I  didn't  know?  Well,  I 
don't!  I've  been  getting  sicker  and  sicker  over  everything. 
What  the  devil  am  I  here  for,  anyhow ! " 

As  he  spoke,  a  girl's  figure  stepped  from  the  house  to  the 
veranda,  from  the  veranda  to  the  turf  of  the  terrace,  and 
walked  towards  them.  She  was  tall,  and  strongly,  beauti- 
fully built ;  around  her  small  head  was  bound  a  smooth  braid 
of  dark  hair.  She  walked  with  a  long,  free  step  and  held 
her  head  high.  As  she  came  towards  them,  the  moonlight 
full  on  her  dark,  proud,  perfect  face,  she  might  have  been 
the  youthful  Diana. 

But  it  was  no  antique  spirit  which  looked  out  of  those 
frank,  fearless  eyes,  and  it  was  a  very  modern  and  col- 
loquially American  greeting  which  she  now  gave  to  the 
astonished  young  people.  "  Well,  Sylvia,  don't  you  know 
your  own  sister?  "  and  "  Hello  there,  Arnold." 

"Why,  Judith  Marshall!"  cried  Sylvia,  falling  upon  her 
breathlessly.     "However  in  the  world  did  you  get  here!" 

Arnold  said  nothing.  He  had  fallen  back  a  step  and  now 
looked  at  the  new-comer  with  a  fixed,  dazzled  gaze. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
ANOTHER  BRAND  OF  MODERN  TALK 

"  Where's  Judith  ? "  said  Arnold  for  sole  greeting,  as 
he  saw  Morrison  at  the  piano  and  Sylvia  sitting  near  it, 
cool  and  clear  in  a  lacy  white  dress.  Morrison  lifted  long 
fingers  from  the  keys  and  said  gravely,  "  She  came  through 
a  moment  ago,  saying,  '  Where's  Arnold  ? '  and  went  out 
through  that  door."  His  fingers  dropped  and  Chopin's 
voice  once  more  rose  plaintively. 

The  sound  of  Arnold's  precipitate  rush  across  the  room 
and  out  of  the  door  was  followed  by  a  tinkle  of  laughter 
from  Sylvia.  Morrison  looked  around  at  her  over  his 
shoulder,  with  a  flashing  smile  of  mutual  understanding, 
but  he  finished  the  prelude  before  he  spoke.  Then,  without 
turning  around,  as  he  pulled  out  another  sheet  from  the 
music  heaped  on  the  piano,  he  remarked :  "  If  that  French 
philosopher  was  right  when  he  said  no  disease  is  as  con- 
tagious as  love-making,  we  may  expect  soon  to  find  the 
very  chairs  and  tables  in  this  house  clasped  in  each  other's 
arms.  Old  as  I  am,  I  feel  it  going  to  my  head,  like  a  bed 
of  full-blooming  valerian." 

Sylvia  made  no  answer.  She  felt  herself  flushing,  and 
could  not  trust  her  voice  to  be  casual.  He  continued  for  a 
moment  to  thumb  over  the  music  aimlessly,  as  though  wait- 
ing for  her  to  speak. 

The  beautiful  room,  darkened  against  the  midsummer 
heat,  shimmered  dimly  in  a  transparent  half-light,  the  vivid 
life  of  its  bright  chintz,  its  occasional  brass,  its  clean,  daring 
spots  of  crimson  and  purple  flowers,  subdued  into  a  fabu- 
lous, half-seen  richness.  There  was  not  a  sound.  The 
splendid  heat  of  the  early  August  afternoon  flamed,  and 
paused,  and  held  its  breath. 

361 


262  The  Bent  Twig 

Into  this  silence,  like  a  bird  murmuring  a  drowsy  note 
over  a  still  pool,  there  floated  the  beginning  of  Am  Meer. 
Sylvia  sat,  passive  to  her  finger-tips,  a  vase  filled  to  the 
brim  with  melody.  She  stared  with  unseeing  eyes  at  the 
back  of  the  man  at  the  piano.  She  was  not  thinking  of  him, 
she  was  not  aware  that  she  was  conscious  of  him  at  all ;  but 
hours  afterward  wherever  she  looked,  she  saw  for  an  in- 
stant again  in  miniature  the  slender,  vigorous,  swaying 
figure ;  the  thick  brown  hair,  streaked  with  white  and  curling 
slightly  at  the  ends ;  the  brooding  head.  .  .  . 

When  the  last  note  was  still,  the  man  stood  up  and 
moved  away  from  the  piano.  He  dropped  into  an  arm- 
chair near  Sylvia,  and  Iear.ir^'  -is  fine,  ugly  head  back 
against  the  brilliant  chintz,  he  looked  at  her  meditatively. 
His  great  bodily  suavity  gave  his  every  action  a  curious 
significance  and  grace.  Sylvia,  still  under  the  spell  of  his 
singing,  did  not  stir,  returning  his  look  out  of  wide,  dream- 
ing eyes. 

When  he  spoke,  his  voice  blended  with  the  silence  almost 
as  harmoniously  as  the  music.  ..."  Do  you  know  what 
I  wish  you  would  do,  Miss  Sylvia  Marshall?  I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  something  about  yourself.  Now  that  I'm  no 
longer  forbidden  to  look  at  you,  or  think  about  you.  .  .  ." 

"  Forbidden  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  very  much  astonished. 

"  There ! "  he  said,  wilfully  mistaking  her  meaning,  and 
smiling  faintly,  "  I  am  such  an  old  gentleman  that  I'm  per- 
fectly negligible  to  a  young  lady.  She  doesn't  even  notice 
or  not  whether  I  look  at  her,  and  think  about  her." 

A  few  years  before  this  Sylvia  would  have  burst  out 
impetuously,  "  Oh  yes,  I  have !  I've  wondered  awfully 
what  made  you  so  indifferent,"  but  now  she  kept  this  re- 
flection to  herself  and  merely  said,  "  What  in  the  world  did 
you  fancy  was  '  forbidding '  you  ?  " 

"  Honor ! "  said  Morrison,  with  a  note  of  mock  solem- 
nity. "Honor!  Victoria  was  so  evidently  snatching  at 
you  as  a  last  hope  for  Arnold.  She  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  everybody  else  but  Arnold  was  to  be  strictly 
non-existent.    But  now  that  Arnold  has  found  a  character 


Another  Brand  of  Modern  Talk         263 

beautifully  and  archaically  simple  to  match  his  own  primi- 
tive needs,  I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  enjoy  a  little  civilized 
talk  with  you.  In  any  case,  it  was  absurd  to  think  of  you 
for  Arnold.  It  merely  shows  how  driven  poor  Victoria 
was!" 

Sylvia  tried  to  speak  lightly,  although  she  was  pene- 
trated with  pleasure  at  this  explanation  of  his  holding  aloof. 
"  Oh,  /  like  Arnold  very  much.  I  always  have.  There's 
something  .  .  .  something  sort  of  touching  about  Arnold, 
don't  you  think?  Though  I  must  say  that  I've  heard 
enough  about  the  difference  between  training  quail  dogs 
and  partridge  dogs  to  last  me  the  rest  of  my  life.  But 
that's  rather  touching  too,  his  not  knowing  what  to  do  with 
himself  but  fiddle  around  with  his  guns  and  tennis-racquets. 
They're  all  he  has  to  keep  him  from  being  bored  to  death, 
and  they  don't  go  nearly  far  enough.  Some  day  he  will  just 
drop  dead  from  ennui,  poor  Arnold!  Wouldn't  he  have 
enjoyed  being  a  civil  engineer,  and  laying  out  railroads  in 
wild  country !  He'd  have  been  a  good  one  too !  The  same 
amount  of  energy  he  puts  into  his  polo  playing  would  make 
him  fight  his  way  through  darkest  Thibet."  She  meditated 
over  this  hypothesis  for  a  moment  and  then  added  with  a 
nod  of  her  head,  "  Oh  yes,  I  like  Arnold  ever  so  much  .  .  . 
one  kind  of  '  liking/  " 

"  Of  course  you  like  him,"  assented  the  older  man,  who 
had  been  watching  her  as  she  talked,  and  whose  manner 
now,  as  he  took  up  the  word  himself,  resembled  that  of  an 
exquisitely  adroit  angler,  casting  out  the  lightest,  the  most 
feathery,  the  most  perfectly  controlled  of  dry-flies.  "  You're 
too  intelligent  not  to  like  everybody  who's  not  base — and 
Arnold's  not  base.  And  he  '  likes '  you.  If  you  had  cared 
to  waste  one  of  your  red-brown  tresses  on  him,  you  could 
have  drawn  him  by  a  single  hair.  But  then,  everybody 
'  likes '  you." 

"  Old  Mr.  Sommerville  doesn't !  "  said  Sylvia,  on  an  im- 
pulse. 

Morrison  looked  at  her  admiringly,  and  put  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  together  with  exquisite  precision.     "  So  you  add 


264  The  Bent  Twig 

second  sight  to  your  other  accomplishments !  How  in  the 
world  could  a  girl  of  your  age  have  the  experience  and 
intuition  to  feel  that?  Old  Sommerville  passes  for  a  great 
admirer  of  yours.  You  won't,  I  hope,  go  so  uncannily 
far  in  your  omniscience  as  to  pretend  to  know  why  he 
doesn't  like  you  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't,"  said  Sylvia,  "  because  I  haven't  the  very 
faintest  idea.     Have  you?" 

"  I  know  exactly  why.  It's  connected  with  one  of  the  old 
gentleman's  eccentricities.  He's  afraid  of  you  on  account 
of  his  precious  nephew." 

"  I  didn't  know  he  had  a  nephew."  Sylvia  was  im- 
mensely astonished. 

"Well,  he  has,  and  he  bows  down  and  worships  him,  as 
he  does  his  granddaughter.  You  see  how  he  adores  Molly. 
It's  nice  of  the  old  fellow,  the  cult  he  has  for  his  descend- 
ants, but  occasionally  inconvenient  for  innocent  bystanders. 
He  thinks  everybody  wants  to  make  off  with  his  young  folks. 
You  and  I  are  fellow-suspects.  Haven't  you  felt  him  wish 
he  could  strike  me  dead,  when  Molly  makes  tea  for  me,  or 
turns  over  music  as  I  play  ?  "  He  laughed  a  little,  a  gentle, 
kind,  indulgent  laugh.  "Molly!"  he  said,  as  if  his  point 
were  more  than  elucidated  by  the  mere  mention  of  her 
name. 

Sylvia  intimated  with  a  laugh  that  her  point  was  clearer 
yet  in  that  she  had  no  name  to  mention.  "  But  I  never  saw 
his  nephew.    I  never  even  heard  of  him  until  this  minute." 

"  No,  and  very  probably  never  will  see  him.  He's  very 
seldom  here.  And  if  you  did  see  him,  you  wouldn't  like 
him — he's  an  eccentric  of  the  worst  brand,"  said  Morrison 
tranquilly.  "  But  monomanias  need  no  foundation  in 
fact "  He  broke  off  abruptly  to  say :  "  Is  this  all  an- 
other proof  of  your  diabolical  cleverness?  I  started  in  to 
hear  something  about  yourself,  and  here  I  find  myself  talk- 
ing about  everything  else  in  the  world." 

"  I'm  not  clever,"  said  Sylvia,  hoping  to  be  contradicted. 

"  Well,  you're  a  great  deal  too  nice  to  be  consciously 
so,"  admitted  Morrison.     "  See  here,"  he  went  on,  "  it's 


Another  Brand  of  Modern  Talk         265 

evident  that  you're  more  than  a  match  for  me  at  this  game. 
Suppose  we  strike  a  bargain.  You  introduce  yourself  to 
me  and  I'll  do  the  same  by  you.  Isn't  it  quite  the  most 
fantastic  of  all  the  bizarreries  of  human  intercourse  that  * 
an  '  introduction '  to  a  fellow-being  consists  in  being  in- 
formed of  his  name, — quite  the  most  unimportant,  for- 
tuitous thing  about  him  ?  " 

Sylvia  considered.  "  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?  "  she 
asked  finally. 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  everything,"  said  the  man  gaily. 
"  My  curiosity  has  been  aroused  to  an  almost  unappeasable 
pitch.  But  of  course  I'll  take  any  information  you  feel  like 
doling  out.  In  the  first  place,  how,  coming  from  such 
a  .  .  ."  He  checked  himself  and  changed  the  form  of  his 
question :  "  I  overheard  you  speaking  to  Victoria's  maic}, 
and  I've  been  lying  awake  nights  ever  since,  wondering 
how  it  happened  that  you  speak  French  with  so  pure  an 
accent." 

"  Oh,  that's  simple !  Professor  and  Madame  La  Rue 
are  old  friends  of  the  family  and  I've  spent  a  lot  of  time 
with  them.  And  then,  of  course,  French  is  another  mother- 
language  for  Father.  He  and  Aunt  Victoria  were  brought 
up  in  Paris,  you  know." 

Morrison  sighed.  "  Isn't  it  strange  how  all  the  miracles 
evaporate  into  mere  chemical  reactions  when  you  once  in- 
vestigate !  All  the  white-clad,  ghostly  spirits  turn  out  to 
be  clothes  on  the  line.  I  suppose  there's  some  equally 
natural  explanation  about  your  way  on  the  piano — the 
clear,  limpid  phrasing  of  that  Bach  the  other  day,  and  then 
the  color  of  the  Bizet  afterwards.  It's  astonishing  to  hear 
anybody  of  your  crude  youth  playing  Bach  at  all — and  then 
to  hear  it  played  right — and  afterwards  to  hear  a  modern 
given  his  right  note.  .  .  ." 

Sylvia  was  perfectly  aware  that  she  was  being  flattered, 
and  she  was  immensely  enjoying  it.  She  became  more 
animated,  and  the  peculiar  sparkle  of  her  face  more  spirited. 
"  Oh,  that's  old  Reinhardt,  my  music  teacher.  He  would 
take  all  the  skin  off  my  knuckles  if  I  played  a  Bach  gigue 


266  The  Bent  Twig 

the  least  bit  like  that  Arlesienne  Minuet.  He  doesn't  ap- 
prove of  Bizet  very  much,  anyhow.  He's  a  tremendous 
classicist." 

"  Isn't  it,"  inquired  Morrison,  phrasing  his  question  care- 
fully, "  isn't  it,  with  no  disrespect  to  La  Chance  intended, 
isn't  it  rather  unusually  good  fortune  for  a  smallish  West- 
ern city  to  own  a  real  musician  ?  " 

"  Well,  La  Chance  bears  up  bravely  under  its  good  for- 
tune," said  Sylvia  dryly.  "  Old  Mr.  Reinhardt  isn't  exactly 
a  prime  favorite  there.  He's  a  terribly  beery  old  man,  and 
he  wipes  his  nose  on  his  sleeve.  Our  house  was  the  only 
respectable  one  in  town  that  he  could  go  into.  But  then, 
our  house  isn't  so  very  respectable.  It  has  its  advantages, 
not  being  so  very  respectable,  though  it  'most  killed  me  as 
a  young  girl  to  feel  us  so.  But  I  certainly  have  a  choice 
gallery  of  queer  folks  in  my  acquaintance,  and  I  have  the 
queerest  hodge-podge  of  scraps  of  things  learned  from 
them.  I  know  a  little  Swedish  from  Miss  Lindstrom. 
She's  a  Swedish  old  maid  who  does  uplift  work  among 
the  negroes — isn't  that  a  weird  combination?  You  just 
ought  to  hear  what  she  makes  of  negro  dialect !  And  I  know 
all  the  socialist  arguments  from  hearing  a  socialist  editor 
get  them  off  every  Sunday  afternoon.  And  I  even  know 
how  to  manage  planchette  and  write  mediumistically — save 
the  mark! — from  Consin  Parnelia,  a  crazy  old  cousin  of 
Mother's  who  hangs  /ound  the  house  more  or  less." 

"  I  begin  to  gather,"  surmised  Morrison,  "  that  you  must 
have  a  remarkable  father  and  mother.  What  are  they 
like?" 

"  Well,"  said  Sylvia  thoughtfully,  "  Mother's  the  bravest 
thing  you  ever  saw.  She's  not  afraid  of  anything!  I  don't 
mean  cows,  or  the  house-afire,  or  mice,  or  such  foolish- 
ness. I  mean  life  and  death,  and  sickness  and  poverty  and 
fear.  .  .  ." 

Morrison  nodded  his  head  understanding^,  a  fine  light 
of  appreciation  in  his  eyes,  "  Not  to  be  afraid  of  fear — 
that's  splendid." 

Sylvia  went  on  to  particularize.    "  When  any  of  us  are 


Another  Brand  of  Modern  Talk         267 

sick — it's  my  little  brother  Lawrence  who  is  mostly — 
Judith  and  I  are  always  well — Father  just  goes  all  to 
pieces,  he  gets  so  frightened.  But  Mother  stiffens  her  back 
and  makes  everything  in  the  house  go  on  just  as  usual,  very 
quiet,  very  calm.  She  holds  everything  together  tight.  She 
says  it's  sneaking  and  cowardly  if  you're  going  to  accept 
life  at  all,  not  to  accept  all  of  it — the  sour  with  the  sweet — • 
and  not  whimper." 

"  Very  fine, — very  fine !  Possibly  a  very  small  bit  .  .  . 
grim?"  commented  Morrison,  with  a  rising  inflection. 

"  Oh,  perhaps,  a  little !  "  agreed  Sylvia,  as  if  it  did  not 
matter;  "  but  I  can't  give  you  any  idea  of  Mother.  She's — 
she's  just  great!  And  yet  I  couldn't  live  like  her,  without 
wanting  to  smash  everything  up.  She's  somebody  that 
Seneca  would  have  liked." 

"And  your  father?"  queried  Morrison. 

"  Oh,  he's  great  too — dear  Father — but  so  different ! 
He  and  Mother  between  them  have  just  about  all  the  varie- 
ties of  human  nature  that  are  worth  while!  Father's  red- 
headed (though  it's  mostly  gray  now),  and  quick,  and  blus- 
tering, and  awfully  clever,  and  just  adored  by  his  students, 
and  talks  every  minute,  and  apparently  does  all  the  deciding, 
and  yet  ...  he  couldn't  draw  the  breath  of  life  without 
Mother;  and  when  it  comes  right  down  to  doing  anything, 
what  he  always  does  is  what  he  knows  will  come  up  to  her 
standard." 

Morrison  raised  delightedly  amused  hands  to  heaven. 
"  The  Recording  Angel  domiciled  in  the  house ! "  he  cried. 
"  It  had  never  occurred  to  me  before  how  appallingly  dis- 
cerning the  eye  of  the  modern  offspring  must  be.  Go  on, 
go  on ! " 

Elated  by  the  sensation  of  appearing  clever,  Sylvia  con- 
tinued with  a  fresh  flow  of  eloquence.  "  And  there  never 
was  such  a  highly  moral  bringing-up  as  we  children  have 
had.  It's  no  fault  of  my  family's  if  I've  turned  out  a  grasp- 
ing materialist !  I  was  brought  up  " — she  flamed  out  sud- 
denly as  at  some  long-hoarded  grievance — "  I  was  brought 
up  in  a  moral  hot-house,  and  I  haven't  yet  recovered  from 


268  The  Bent  Twig 

the  shock  of  being  transplanted  into  real  earth  in  the  real 
world." 

Morrison  paid  instant  tribute  to  her  aroused  and  serious 
feeling  by  a  grave  look  of  attention.  "  Won't  you  explain  ?  * 
he  asked.  "  I'm  so  dull  I  don't  follow  you.  But  I  haven't 
been  so  interested  in  years." 

"  Why,  I  mean,"  said  Sylvia,  trying  hard  to  reduce  to 
articulateness  a  complicated  conception,  "  I  mean  that 
Father  and  Mother  just  deliberately  represented  values  to 
me  as  different  from  what  they  really  are,  with  real  folks! 
And  now  I  find  that  I'm  real  folks !  I  can't  help  it.  You 
are  as  you  are,  you  know.  They  kept  representing  to  me 
always  that  the  best  pleasures  are  the  ones  that  are  the  most 
important  to  folks — music,  I  mean,  and  Milton's  poetry, 
and  a  fine  novel — and,  in  Mother's  case,  a  fine  sunset,  or 
a  perfect  rose,  or  things  growing  in  the  garden." 

No  old  associate  of  Morrison's  would  have  recognized 
the  man's  face,  shocked  as  it  was  by  surprise  and  interest 
out  of  his  usual  habit  of  conscious,  acute,  self-possessed  ob- 
servation. The  angler  had  inadvertently  stepped  off  a  ledge 
into  deep  water,  and  a  very  swift  current  was  tugging  at 
him.  He  leaned  forward,  his  eyes  as  eager  with  curiosity 
as  a  boy's.  "  Do  I  understand  you  to  say  that  you  repudiate 
those  '  best  pleasures  '  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  don't  understand  anything  of  the  sort," 
said  Sylvia  very  earnestly.  "  They've  soaked  me  so  in 
music  that  I'm  a  regular  bond-slave  to  it.  And  a  perfect 
rose  is  associated  with  so  many  lovely  recollections  of 
Mother's  wonderful  silent  joy  in  it,  that  I  could  weep  for 
pleasure.  What  I'm  talking  about — what  I'm  trying  to  tell 
you,  is  the  shock  it  was  to  me,  when  I  got  out  of  that 
artificially  unworldly  atmosphere  of  home — for  there's  no 
use  talking,  it  is  artificial ! — to  find  that  those  pleasures 
aren't  the  ones  that  are  considered  important  and  essential. 
How  did  I  find  things  in  the  real  world?  Why,  I  find  that 
people  don't  give  a  thought  to  those  '  best  pleasures  '  until 
they  have  a  lot  of  other  things  first.  Everything  Vd  been 
trained  to  value  and  treasure  was  negligible,  not  worth  both- 


Another  Brand  of  Modern  Talk         269 

ering  about.  But  money — position — not  having  to  work — 
elegance — those  are  vital — prime!  Real  people  can't  en  joy- 
hearing  a  concert  if  they  know  they've  got  to  wash  up  a 
lot  of  dishes  afterwards.  Hiring  a  girl  to  do  that  work 
is  the  first  thing  to  do !  There  isn't  another  woman  in  the 
world,  except  my  mother,  who'd  take  any  pleasure  in  a 
perfect  rose  if  she  thought  her  sleeves  were  so  old-fashioned 
that  people  would  stare  at  her.  Folks  talk  about  liking  to 
look  at  a  fine  sunset,  but  what  they  give  their  blood  and 
bones  for,  is  a  fine  house  on  the  best  street  in  town !  " 

"  Well,  but  you're  not  '  people '  in  that  vulgar  sense !  " 
protested  Morrison.  He  spoke  now  without  the  slightest 
arriere-pensee  of  flattering  her,  and  Sylvia  in  her  sudden 
burst  for  self-expression  was  unconscious  of  him,  save  as 
an  opponent  in  an  argument. 

"  You  just  say  that,  in  that  superior  way,"  she  flashed  at 
him,  "  because  you  don't  have  to  bother  your  head  about 
such  matters,  because  you  don't  have  to  associate  with 
people  who  are  fighting  for  those  essentials.  For  they  are 
what  everybody  except  Father  and  Mother — everybody 
feels  to  be  the  essentials — a  pretty  house,  handsome  clothes, 
servants  to  do  the  unpleasant  things,  social  life — oh,  plenty 
of  money  sums  it  all  up,  '  vulgar '  as  it  sounds.  And  I 
don't  believe  you  are  different.  I  don't  believe  anybody  you 
know  is  really  a  bit  different!  Let  Aunt  Victoria,  let  old 
Mr.  Sommerville,  lose  their  money,  and  you'd  see  how  un- 
important Debussy  and  Masaccio  would  be  to  them,  com- 
pared to  having  to  black  their  own  shoes !  " 

"  Well,  upon  my  word !  "  exclaimed  Morrison.  "  Are 
you  at  eighteen  presuming  to  a  greater  knowledge  of  life 
than  I  at  forty?" 

"  I'm  not  eighteen,  I'm  twenty-three,"  said  Sylvia.  "  The 
difference  is  enormous.  And  if  I  don't  know  more  about 
plain  unvarnished  human  nature  than  you,  I  miss  my  guess ! 
You  haven't  gone  through  five  years  at  a  State  University, 
rubbing  shoulders  with  folks  who  haven't  enough  sophisti- 
cation to  pretend  to  be  different  from  what  they  are.  You 
haven't  taught  music  for  three  years  in  the  middle-class 


270  The  Bent  Twig 

families  of  a  small  Western  city !  "  She  broke  off  to  laugh 
an  apologetic  depreciation  of  her  own  heat.  "  You'd  think 
I  was  addressing  a  meeting,"  she  said  in  her  usual  tone. 
"  I  got  rather  carried  away  because  this  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  really  spoke  out  about  it.  There  are  so  few  who  could 
understand.  If  I  ever  tried  to  explain  it  to  Father  and 
Mother,  I'd  be  sure  to  find  them  so  deep  in  a  discussion  of 
the  relation  between  Socrates  and  Christ  that  they  couldn't 
pay  any  attention !  Professor  Kennedy  could  understand — 
but  he's  such  a  fanatic  on  the  other  side." 

Morrison  looked  a  quick  suspicion.  "Who  is  Professor 
Kennedy  ? "  he  inquired ;  and  was  frankly  relieved  when 
Sylvia  explained :  "  He's  the  head  of  the  Mathematics  De- 
partment, about  seventy  years  old,  and  the  crossest,  can- 
tankerousest  old  misanthrope  you  ever  saw.  And  thinks 
himself  immensely  clever  for  being  so!  He  just  loathes 
people — the  way  they  really  are — and  he  dotes  on  Mother 
and  Judith  because  they're  not  like  anybody  else.  And  he 
hates  me  because  they  couldn't  all  hypnotize  me  into  looking 
through  their  eyes.  He  thinks  it  low  of  me  to  realize  that 
if  you're  going  to  live  at  all,  you've  got  to  live  with  people, 
and  you  can't  just  calmly  brush  their  values  on  one  side. 
He  said  once  that  any  sane  person  in  this  world  was  like 
a  civilized  man  with  plenty  of  gold  coin,  cast  away  on  a 
desert  island  with  a  tribe  of  savages  who  only  valued  beads 
and  calico,  and  buttons  and  junk.  And  I  said  (I  knew 
perfectly  well  he  was  hitting  at  me)  that  if  he  was  really 
cast  away  and  couldn't  get  to  another  island,  I  thought  the 
civilized  man  would  be  an  idiot  to  starve  to  death,  when  he 
could  buy  food  of  the  savages  by  selling  them  junk.  And 
I  thought  he  just  wasted  his  breath  by  swearing  at  the 
savages  for  not  knowing  about  the  value  of  gold.  There  I 
was  hitting  at  him!  He's  spoiled  his  digestion,  hating  the 
way  people  are  made.  And  Professor  Kennedy  said  some- 
thing nasty  and  neat  (he's  awfully  clever)  about  that  being 
rather  a  low  occupation  for  a  civilized  being — taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  idiocies  of  savages — he  meant  me,  of  course 
— and  he's  right,  it  is  a  mean  business ;  I  hate  it.    And  that's 


Another  Brand  of  Modern  Talk        271 

why  Fve  always  wanted  to  get  on  another  island — not  an 
uninhabited  island,  like  the  one  Father  and  Mother  have — 
but  one  where — well,  this  is  one ! "  she  waved  her  hand 
about  the  lovely  room,  "  this  is  just  one !  Where  every- 
thing's beautiful — costly  too — but  not  just  costly;  where  all 
the  horrid,  necessary  consequences  of  things  are  taken  care 
of  without  one's  bothering — where  flowers  are  taken  out 
of  the  vases  when  they  wilt  and  fresh  ones  put  in;  and 
dishes  get  themselves  washed  invisibly,  inaudibly — and  litter 
just  vanishes  without  our  lifting  a  hand.  Of  course  the 
people  who  live  so  always,  can  rejoice  with  a  clear  mind  in 
sunsets  and  bright  talk.  That's  what  I  meant  the  other  day 
— the  day  Judith  came — when  I  said  I'd  arrived  in  Capua 
at  last;  when  old  Mr.  Sommerville  thought  me  so  material- 
istic and  cynical.  If  he  did  that,  on  just  that  phrase — what 
must  you  think,  after  all  this  confession  intime  d'un  enfant 
du  sieclef  "  She  stopped  with  a  graceful  pretense  of  dread- 
ing his  judgment,  although  she  knew  that  she  had  been 
talking  well,  and  read  nothing  but  admiration  in  his  very 
expressive  face. 

"  But  all  this  means,  you  extraordinary  young  person, 
that  you're  not  in  the  least  an  enfant  du  siecle!"  he  cried. 
"  It  means  that  you're  dropped  down  in  this  groaning,  heavy- 
spirited  twentieth  century,  troubled  about  many  things,  from 
the  exact  year  that  was  the  golden  climax  of  the  Renais- 
sance; that  you're  a  perfect  specimen  of  the  high-hearted, 
glorious  .  .  ."  he  qualified  on  a  second  thought,  "  unless 
your  astonishing  capacity  to  analyze  it  all,  comes  from  the 
nineteenth  century  ?  " 

"  No,  that  comes  from  Father,"  explained  Sylvia,  laugh- 
ing. "  Isn't  it  funny,  using  the  tool  Father  taught  me  to 
handle,  against  his  ideas !  He's  just  great  on  analysis.  As 
soon  as  we  were  old  enough  to  think  at  all,  he  was  always 
practising  us  on  analysis — especially  of  what  made  us  want 
things,  or  not  like  them.  It's  one  of  his  sayings — he's  al- 
ways getting  it  off  to  his  University  classes — that  if  you 
have  once  really  called  an  emotion  or  an  ambition  by  its 
right  name,  you  have  it  by  the  tail,  so  to  speak — that  if 


272  The  Bent  Twig 

you  know,  for  instance,  that  it's  your  vanity  and  not  your 
love  that's  wounded  by  something,  you'll  stop  caring.  But 
I  never  noticed  that  it  really  worked  if  you  cared  hard 
enough.  Diagnosing  a  disease  doesn't  help  you  any,  if  you 
keep  right  on  being  sick  with  it." 

"  My  dear !  My  dear !  "  cried  the  man,  leaning  towards 
her  again,  and  looking — dazzled — into  the  beauty  and  in- 
telligence of  her  eyes,  "  the  idea  that  you  are  afflicted  with 
any  disease  could  only  occur  to  the  morbid  mind  of  the 
bluest-nosed  Puritan  who  ever  cut  down  a  May-pole! 
You're  wonderfully,  you're  terrifyingly,  you  are  superbly 
sound  and  vigorous !  " 

Breaking  in  upon  this  speech,  there  came  the  quick,  smooth 
purr  of  an  automobile  with  all  its  parts  functioning  per- 
fectly, a  streak  of  dark  gray  past  the  shutters,  the  sigh  of 
an  engine  stopped  suddenly —  Molly  Sommerville  sprang 
from  behind  the  steering  wheel  and  ran  into  the  house. 
She  was  exquisitely  flushed  and  eager  when  she  came  in, 
but  when  she  saw  the  two  alone  in  the  great,  cool,  dusky 
room,  filled  to  its  remotest  corners  with  the  ineffable  aroma 
of  long,  intimate,  and  interrupted  talk,  she  was  brought 
up  short.  She  faltered  for  an  instant  and  then  continued 
to  advance,  her  eyes  on  Sylvia.  "  It's  so  hot,"  she  said,  at 
random,  "  and  I  thought  I'd  run  over  for  tea " 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Sylvia,  jumping  up  in  haste,  "  it's 
late!  I'd  forgotten  it  was  time  for  tea!  Blame  me! 
Since  I've  been  here,  Aunt  Victoria  has  left  it  to  me — 
where  shall  I  say  to  have  it  set  ?  " 

"  The  pergola's  lovely,"  suggested  Molly.  She  took  her 
close  motor-hat  from  the  pure  gold  of  her  hair  with  a  rather 
listless  air. 

"  All  right — the  pergola !  "  agreed  Sylvia,  perhaps  a  little 
too  anxiously.  In  spite  of  herself,  she  gave,  and  she  knew 
she  was  giving,  the  effect  of  needing  somehow  to  make 
something  up  to  Molly.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XXV 
NOTHING  IN  THE  LEAST  MODERN 

Sylvia  was  sitting  in  the  garden,  an  unread  book  on  her 
knees,  dreaming  among  red  and  yellow  and  orange  gladioli. 
She  looked  with  a  fixed,  bright,  beatific  stare  at  the  flame- 
colored  flowers  and  did  not  see  them.  She  saw  only  Felix 
Morrison,  she  heard  only  his  voice,  she  was  brimming  with 
the  sense  of  him.  In  a  few  moments  she  would  go  into  the 
house  and  find  him  in  the  darkened  living-room,  as  he  had 
been  every  afternoon  for  the  last  fortnight,  ostensibly  come 
in  to  lounge  away  the  afternoon  over  a  book,  really  wait- 
ing for  her  to  join  him.  And  when  she  came  in,  he  would 
look  up  at  her,  that  wonderful  penetrating  deep  look  of 
his  .  .  .  and  she  would  welcome  him  with  her  eyes. 

And  then  they  would  talk!  Judith  and  Arnold  would 
be  playing  tennis,  oblivious  of  the  heat,  and  Aunt  Victoria 
would  be  annihilating  the  tedious  center  of  the  day  by  sleep. 
Nobody  would  interrupt  them  for  hours.  How  they  would 
talk !  How  they  had  talked !  As  she  thought  of  it  the 
golden  fortnight  hummed  and  sang  about  Sylvia's  ears  like 
a  Liszt  Liebes-Traum. 

They  had  talked  of  everything  in  the  world,  and  it  all 
meant  but  one  thing,  that  they  had  discovered  each  other, 
a  discovery  visibly  as  wonderful  for  Morrison  as  for  the 
girl.  They  had  discovered  each  other,  and  they  had  been 
intelligent  enough  to  know  at  once  what  it  meant.  They 
knew !  And  in  a  moment  she  would  go  into  the  house  to 
him.  She  half  closed  her  eyes  as  before  a  too-great  bril- 
liance. .  .  . 

Arnold  appeared  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  row  of 
gladioli.  He  was  obviously  looking  for  some  one.  Sylvia 
called  to  him,  with  the  friendly  tone  she  always  had  for 


274  The  Bent  Twig 

him :  "  Here  I  am !  I  don't  know  where  Judith  is.  Will 
I  do?" 

From  a  distance  Arnold  nodded,  and  continued  to  ad- 
vance, the  irregularity  of  his  wavering  gait  more  pronounced 
than  usual.  As  soon  as  she  could  see  the  expression  of  his 
face,  Sylvia's  heart  began  to  beat  fast,  with  a  divination 
of  something  momentous.  He  sat  down  beside  her,  took 
off  his  hat,  and  laid  it  on  the  bench.  "  Do  you  remember," 
he  asked  in  a  strange,  high  voice,  "  that  you  said  you  would 
like  me  for  your  brother  ?  " 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  be,"  he  said,  and  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands,  burst  into  sobs. 

Sylvia  was  so  touched  by  his  emotion,  so  sympathetically 
moved  by  his  news,  that  even  through  her  happy  ejacula- 
tions the  tears  rained  down  her  own  cheeks.  She  tried  to 
wipe  them  away  and  discovered,  absurdly  enough,  that  she 
had  lost  her  handkerchief.  "  Aren't  we  idiots !  "  she  cried 
in  a  voice  of  joyful  quavers.  "  I  never  understood  before 
why  everybody  cries  at  a  wedding.  See  here,  Arnold,  I've 
lost  my  handkerchief.  Loan  me  yours."  She  pulled  his 
handkerchief  out  of  his  pocket,  she  wiped  her  eyes,  she  put 
a  sisterly  kiss  on  his  thin,  sallow  cheek,  she  cried :  "  You 
dears!  Isn't  it  too  good  to  be  true!  Arnold!  So  soon! 
Inside  two  weeks  !  How  ever  could  you  have  the  courage  ? 
Judith !  My  Judith !  Why,  she  never  looked  at  a  man 
before.    How  did  you  dare?" 

His  overmastering  fit  of  emotion  was  passed  now.  His 
look  was  of  white,  incredulous  exaltation.  "  We  saw  each 
other  and  ran  into  each  other's  arms,"  he  said ;  "  I  didn't 
have  to  *  dare.'    It  was  like  breathing." 

"  Oh,  how  perfect ! "  she  cried,  "  how  simply,  simply 
perfect ! "  and  now  there  was  for  an  instant  a  note  of  wist- 
ful envy  in  her  voice.  "  It's  all  perfect !  She  never  so 
much  as  looked  at  a  man  before,  and  you  said  the  other 
night  you'd  never  been  in  love  before." 

Arnold  looked  at  her  wildly.    "  I  said  that !  "  he  cried. 

"  Why,  yes,  don't  you  remember,  after  that  funny,  joking 


Nothing  in  the  Least  Modern  275 

talk  with  me,  you  said  that  was  the  nearest  you'd  ever  come 
to  proposing  to  any  girl  ?  " 

"  God  Almighty ! "  cried  the  man,  and  did  not  apologize 
for  the  blasphemy.  He  looked  at  her  fixedly,  as  though  un- 
guessed-at  horizons  of  innocence  widened  inimitably  be- 
fore his  horrified  eyes.  And  then,  following  some  line  of 
association  which  escaped  Sylvia,  "  I'm  not  fit  to  look  at 
Judith !  "  he  cried.  The  idea  seemed  to  burst  upon  him 
like  a  thunder-clap. 

Sylvia  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  reassuringly.  "  That's 
the  proper  thing  for  a  lover  to  think !  "  she  said  with  cheer- 
ful, commonplace  inanity.  She  did  not  notice  that  he 
shrank  from  her  hand,  because  she  now  sprang  up,  crying, 
"  But  where's  Judy  ?     Where  is  Judy  ?  " 

He  nodded  towards  the  house.  "  She  sent  me  out  to 
get  you.  She's  in  her  room — she  wants  to  tell  you 
— but  when  I  saw  you,  I  couldn't  keep  it  to  myself."  His 
exaltation  swept  back  like  a  wave,  from  the  crest  of  which 
he  murmured  palely,  "  Judith !  Judith !  "  and  Sylvia  laughed 
at  him,  with  the  tears  of  sympathy  in  her  eyes,  and  leaving 
him  there  on  the  bench  staring  before  him  at  the  living 
fire  of  the  flame-colored  flowers,  she  ran  with  all  her  speed 
into  the  house. 

Morrison,  lounging  in  a  chair  with  a  book,  looked  up, 
startled  at  her  whirlwind  entrance.  "  What's  up  ?  "  he  in- 
quired. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  she  checked  herself  and 
pirouetted  with  a  thistle-down  lightness  to  face  him.  Her 
face,  always  like  a  clear,  transparent  vase  lighted  from 
within,  now  gave  out,  deeply  moved  as  she  was,  an  almost 
visible  brightness.  "  Judith !  "  she  cried,  her  voice  ringing 
like  a  silver  trumpet,  "  Judith  and  Arnold !  "  She  was 
poised  like  a  butterfly,  and  as  she  spoke  she  burst  into  flight 
again,  and  was  gone. 

She  had  not  been  near  him,  but  the  man  had  the  distinct 
impression  that  she  had  thrown  herself  on  his  neck  and 
kissed  him  violently,  in  a  transport  of  delight.  In  the 
silent  room,  still  fragrant,  still  echoing  with  her  passage, 


276  The  Bent  Twig 

he  closed  his  book,  and  later  his  eyes,  and  sat  with  the  ex- 
pression of  a  connoisseur  savoring  an  exquisite,  a  perfect 
impression.  .  .  . 

Tea  that  afternoon  was  that  strangest  of  phenomena,  a 
formal  ceremony  of  civilized  life  performed  in  the  abashing 
and  disconcerting  presence  of  naked  emotion.  Arnold  and 
Judith  sat  on  opposite  sides  of  the  pergola,  Judith  shining 
and  radiant  as  the  dawn,  her  usually  firmly  set  lips  soft  and 
tremulous ;  Arnold  rather  pale,  impatient,  oblivious  to  what 
was  going  on  around  him,  his  spirit  prostrated  before  the 
miracle ;  and  when  their  starry  eyes  met,  there  flowed  from 
them  and  towards  them  from  every  one  in  the  pergola,  a 
thousand  unseen  waves  of  excitement. 

The  mistress  of  the  house  herself  poured  tea  in  honor  of 
the  great  occasion,  and  she  was  very  humorous  and  amusing 
about  the  mistakes  caused  by  her  sympathetic  agitation 
"  There !  I've  put  three  lumps  in  yours,  Mr.  Sommerville. 
How  could  I !  But  I  really  don't  know  what  Fm  doing. 
This   business   of   having   love-at-first-sight   in   one's   very 

family !     Give  your  cup  to   Molly;   I'll   make  you  a 

fresh  one.  Oh,  Arnold!  How  could  you  look  at  Judith 
just  then!  You  made  me  fill  this  cup  so  full  I  can't  pass 
it!" 

Mr.  Sommerville,  very  gallant  and  full  of  compliments 
and  whimsical  allusions,  did  his  best  to  help  their  hostess 
strike  the  decent  note  of  easy  pleasantry;  but  they  were 
both  battling  with  something  too  strong  for  them.  Un- 
seconded  as  they  were  by  any  of  the  others,  they  gave  a 
little  the  effect  of  people  bowing  and  smirking  to  each  other 
at  the  foot  of  a  volcano  in  full  eruption.  Morrison,  pick- 
ing up  the  finest  and  sharpest  of  his  conversational  tools, 
ventured  the  hazardous  enterprise  of  expressing  this  idea  to 
them.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  trying  one  topic  after  another, 
expressed  an  impatience  with  the  slow  progress  of  a  Henry 
James  novel  she  was  reading,  and  Mr.  Sommerville,  remark- 
ing with  a  laugh,  "  Oh,  you  cannot  hurry  Henry,"  looked 
to  see  his  mild  witticism  rewarded  by  a  smile  from  the 


Nothing  in  the  Least  Modern  277 

critic.  But  Morrison  shook  his  head,  "  No,  my  dear  old 
friend.  //  faut  Hurler  avec  les  hups — especially  if  you  are 
so  wrought  up  by  their  hurlements  that  you  can't  hear 
yourself  think.  I'm  just  giving  myself  up  to  the  rareness, 
the  richness  of  the  impression." 

The  new  fiancee  herself  talked  rather  more  than  usual, 
though  this  meant  by  no  means  loquacity,  and  presented 
more  the  appearance  of  composure  than  any  one  else  there ; 
although  this  was  amusingly  broken  by  a  sudden  shortness 
of  breath  whenever  she  met  Arnold's  eyes.  She  said  in 
answer  to  a  question  that  she  would  be  going  on  to  her 
hospital  the  day  after  tomorrow — her  two  weeks'  vacation 
over — oh  yes,  she  would  finish  her  course  at  the  hospital; 
she  had  only  a  few  more  months.  And  in  answer  to  another 
question,  Arnold  replied,  obviously  impatient  at  having  to 
speak  to  any  one  but  Judith,  that  of  course  he  didn't  mind 
if  she  went  on  and  got  her  nurse's  diploma — didn't  she 
want  to?    Anything  she  wanted.  .  .  . 

No — decidedly  the  thing  was  too  big  to  make  a  successful 
fete  of.  Morrison  was  silent  and  appreciatively  observant, 
his  eyes  sometimes  on  Sylvia,  sometimes  on  Judith;  Mr. 
Sommerville,  continuing  doggedly  to  make  talk,  descended 
to  unheard-of  trivialities  in  reporting  the  iniquities  of  his 
chauffeur;  Molly  stirred  an  untasted  cup,  did  not  raise  her 
eyes  at  all,  and  spoke  only  once  or  twice,  addressing  to 
Sylvia  a  disconnected  question  or  two,  in  the  answers  to 
which  she  had  obviously  no  interest.  Judith  and  Arnold 
had  never  been  very  malleable  social  material,  and  in  their 
present  formidable  condition  they  were  as  little  assistance 
in  the  manufacture  of  geniality  as  a  couple  of  African 
lions. 

The  professional  fete-makers  were  consequently  enor- 
mously relieved  when  it  was  over  and  their  unavailing  ef- 
forts could  be  decently  discontinued.  Professing  different 
reasons  for  escape,  they  moved  in  disjointed  groups  across 
the  smooth  perfection  of  the  lawn  towards  the  house,  where 
Molly's  car  stood,  gleaming  in  the  sun.  Sylvia  found  her- 
self, as  she  expected,  manoeuvered  to  a  place  beside  Morrison. 


278  The  Bent  Twig 

He  arranged  it  with  his  unobtrusive  deftness  in  getting 
what  he  wanted  out  of  a  group  of  his  fellow-beings,  and 
she  admired  his  skill,  and  leaned  on  it  confidently.  They 
had  had  no  opportunity  that  day  for  the  long  talk  which  had 
been  a  part  of  every  afternoon  for  the  last  week;  and  she 
now  looked  with  a  buoyant  certainty  to  have  him  arrange 
an  hour  together  before  dinner.  Her  anticipation  of  it  on 
that  burning  day  of  reflected  heat  sent  thrills  of  eager  dis- 
quietude over  her.  It  was  not  only  for  Judith  and  Arnold 
that  the  last  week  had  been  one  of  meeting  eyes,  long  twi- 
light evenings  of  breathless,  quick-ripening  intimacy.  .  .  . 

As  they  slackened  their  pace  to  drop  behind  Mr.  Som- 
merville,  who  walked  hand-in-hand  with  his  granddaughter 
in  front  of  them,  Morrison  said,  looking  at  her  with  burn- 
ing eyes,  "...  an  instrument  so  finely  strung  that  it 
vibrates  at  the  mere  sound  of  another  wakened  to  melody — 
what  mortal  man  lives  who  would  not  dream  of  its  re- 
sponse if  he  could  set  his  own  hand  to  the  bow  ?  " 

The  afternoon  had  been  saturated  with  emotional  excite- 
ment and  the  moment  had  come  for  its  inevitable  crytal- 
lization  into  fateful  words.  The  man  spoke  as  though  he 
were  not  wholly  conscious  of  what  he  was  saying.  He 
stepped  beside  her  like  one  in  a  dream.  He  could  not  take 
his  eyes  from  her,  from  her  flushed,  grave,  receptive  face, 
from  her  downcast,  listening  eyes,  her  slow,  trance-like  step 
as  she  waited  for  him  to  go  on.  He  went  on :  "  It  be- 
comes, my  dear,  I  assure  you — the  idea  of  that  possibility 
becomes  absolutely  an  obsession — even  to  a  man  usually 
quite  his  own  master " 

They  were  almost  at  a  standstill  now,  and  the  two  in 
front  of  them  had  reached  the  house.  Sylvia  had  a  mo- 
ment of  what  seemed  to  her  the  purest  happiness  she  had 
ever  known.  .  .  . 

From  across  the  lawn  they  saw  a  violent  gesture — 
Molly  had  thrown  her  grandfather's  clinging  hand  from 
her,  and  flashed  back  upon  the  two,  lingering  there  in  the 
sunlight.  She  cast  herself  on  Sylvia,  panting  and  trying 
to  laugh.    Her  little  white  teeth  showed  in  what  was  almost 


Nothing  in  the  Least  Modern  279 

a  grimace.  "  Why  in  the  world  are  you  two  poking  along 
so?"  she  cried,  passing  her  arm  through  Sylvia's.  Her 
beautiful  sunny  head  came  no  more  than  to  Sylvia's  shoul- 
der. Without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  went  on  hurriedly, 
speaking  in  the  tones  of  suppressed  excitement  which 
thrilled  in  every  one's  voice  that  day :  "  Come  on,  Sylvia — 
let's  work  it  off  together!  Let  me  take  you  somewhere — 
let's  go  to  Rutland  and  back." 

"  That's  thirty  miles  away ! "  said  Sylvia,  "  and  it's  past 
five  now." 

"  I'll  have  you  there  and  back  long  before  seven,"  as- 
serted Molly.  "  Come  on  .  .  .  come  on  .  .  ."  She  pulled 
impatiently,  petulantly  at  the  other  girl's  arm. 

"I'm  not  invited,  I  suppose,"  said  Morrison,  lighting  a 
cigarette  with  care. 

Molly  looked  at  him  a  little  wildly.  "  No,  Felix,  you're 
not  invited !  "  she  said,  and  laughed  unsteadily. 

She  had  hurried  them  along  to  the  car,  and  now  they 
stood  by  the  swift  gray  machine,  Molly's  own,  the  one  she 
claimed  to  love  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  She 
sprang  in  and  motioned  Sylvia  to  the  seat  beside  her. 

"  Hats  ? "  suggested  Morrison,  looking  at  their  bare, 
shining  heads.  He  was  evidently  fighting  for  time,  ma- 
nceuvering  for  an  opening.  His  success  was  that  of  a  man 
gesticulating  against  a  gale.  Molly's  baldly  unscrupulous 
determination  beat  down  the  beginnings  of  his  carefully 
composed  opposition  before  he  could  frame  one  of  his 
well-balanced  sentences.  "  No — no — it  takes  too  long  to 
go  and  get  hats ! "  she  cried  peremptorily.  "  If  you  can't 
have  what  you  want  when  you  want  it,  it's  no  use  having 
it  at  all!" 

"  I'm  not  sure,"  remarked  Morrison,  "  that  Miss  Mar- 
shall wants  this  at  all." 

"  Yes,  she  does ;  yes,  she  does ! "  Molly  contradicted 
him  heatedly.  Sylvia,  hanging  undecided  at  the  step,  felt 
herself  pulled  into  the  car;  the  door  banged,  the  engine 
started  with  a  smooth  sound  of  powerful  machinery,  the 
car  leaped  forward.     Sylvia  cast  one  backward  glance  at 


280  The  Bent  Twig 

Morrison,  an  annoyed,  distinguished,  futile  presence,  stand- 
ing motionless,  and  almost  instantly  disappearing  in  the 
distance  in  which  first  he,  and  then  the  house  and  tall 
poplars  over  it,  shrank  to  nothingness. 

Their  speed  was  dizzying.  The  blazing  summer  air  blew 
hot  and  vital  in  their  faces;  their  hair  tugged  at  the  pins 
and  flew  back  in  fluttering  strands;  their  thin  garments 
clung  to  their  limbs,  molded  as  closely  by  the  compressing 
wind  as  by  water.  Molly  did  not  turn  her  eyes  from  the 
road  ahead,  leaping  up  to  meet  them,  and  vanishing  under 
the  car.  She  tried  to  make  a  little  casual  talk :  "  Don't  you 
love  to  let  it  out,  give  it  all  the  gas  there  is  ?  "  "  There's 
nothing  like  a  quick  spin  for  driving  the  nightmares  out  of 
your  mind,  is  there  ?  "  But  as  Sylvia  made  no  answer  to 
these  overtures  (the  plain  fact  was  that  Sylvia  had  no 
breath  for  speech, — for  anything  but  a  horrified  fascinated 
glare  at  the  road),  she  said  suddenly,  somberly,  "  If  I  were 
you,  I  certainly  should  despise  me ! "  She  took  the  car 
around  a  sharp  curve  on  two  wheels. 

Sylvia  clutched  at  the  side  and  asked  wonderingly, 
"  Why  in  the  world  ?  "  in  a  tone  so  permeated  with  sin- 
cerity that  even  Molly  felt  it. 

"  Don't  you  know?  "  she  cried.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  don't  know?" 

"  Know  what?  "  asked  Sylvia.  Hypnotized  by  the  driv- 
er's intent  and  unwavering  gaze  on  the  road,  she  kept  her 
own  eyes  as  fiercely  concentrated,  her  attention  leaping 
from  one  quickly  seen,  instantly  disappearing  detail  to 
another, — a  pile  of  gravel  here, — a  half-buried  rock  there. 
— They  both  raised  their  voices  to  be  heard  above  the 
sound  of  the  engine  and  the  rush  of  the  car.  "  Know 
what  ?  ■  •  repeated  Sylvia  loudly. 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  I  made  myself  ridiculous  by  pull- 
ing you  away  from  Felix  that  idiotic,  humiliating  way !  " 
Molly  threw  this  inquiry  out,  straight  before  her,  angrily. 
The  wind  caught  at  her  words  and  hurled  them  behind. 

In  a  flash  Sylvia  understood  something  to  which  she  had 
been  resolutely  closing  her  perceptions.     She  felt  sick  and 


Nothing  in  the  Least  Modern  281 

scared.  She  clutched  the  side,  watched  a  hill  rise  up  steep 
before  them  and  flatten  out  under  the  forward  leap  of  the 
car.  She  thought  hard.  Something  of  her  little-girl,  over- 
mastering horror  of  things,  rough,  outspoken,  disagreeable, 
swept  over  her.  She  violently  wished  that  she  could  escape 
from  the  conversation  before  her.  She  would  have  paid 
almost  any  price  to  escape. 

But  Molly's  nerves  were  not  so  sensitive.  She  evidently 
had  no  desire  to  escape  or  to  let  Sylvia.  The  grim  little 
figure  at  the  steering-wheel  controlled  with  her  small  hands 
the  fate  of  the  two.  She  broke  out  now,  impatient  at 
Sylvia's  silence :  "  Any  fool  could  see  that  it  was  because 
I  couldn't  bear  to  see  you  with  Felix  another  minute,  and 
because  I  hadn't  any  other  way  to  get  you  apart.  Every- 
body else  there  knew  why.  I  knew  they  knew.  But  I 
couldn't  help  it.     I  couldn't  bear  it  another  instant ! " 

She  broke  the  glass  of  decent  reticence  with  a  great  clat- 
tering blow.  It  shivered  into  fragments.  There  was  noth- 
ing now  between  them  but  the  real  issue  in  all  its  uncomely 
bareness.  This  real  issue,  the  maenad  at  the  wheel  now 
held  up  before  them  in  a  single  brutal  statement — "  Are  you 
in  love  with  Felix?     I  am." 

There  was  something  eerie,  terrifying,  in  her  casting  these 
words  out,  straight  before  her.  Sylvia  looked  in  awe  at 
the  pale,  pinched  profile,  almost  unrecognizable  in  its  stern 
misery.  "  Because  if  you're  not,"  Molly  went  on,  her 
white  lower  lip  twitching,  "  I  wish  you'd  keep  out.  It  was 
all  right  before  you  came  with  your  horrible  cleverness. 
It  was  all  right.     It  was  all  right." 

Through  the  iteration  of  this  statement,  through  the 
tumult  of  her  own  thoughts,  through  the  mad  rush  of  the 
wind  past  her  ears,  Sylvia  heard  as  clearly  as  though  she 
sat  again  in  the  great,  dim,  quiet  room,  a  melodious  voice 
saying  gently,  indulgently,  laughingly,  "Molly!"  Secure 
in  her  own  safe  place  of  favor  she  felt  a  great  wave  of 
generous  pity  for  the  helpless  self-deception  of  her  sister- 
woman.  Fired  by  this  and  by  the  sudden  perception  of  an 
opening  for  an  act  of  spectacular  magnanimity — would  it 


282  The  Bent  Twig 

be  any  the  less  magnanimous  because  it  would  cost  her 
nothing  in  the  end?— she  reached  for  the  mantle  of  the 
beau  role  and  cast  it  about  her  shoulders.  "  Why,  Molly 
dear !  "  she  cried,  and  her  quick  sympathies  had  never  been 
more  genuinely  aroused,  "  Molly  dear,  of  course  I'll  keep 
out,  if  you  want  me  to.  I'll  leave  the  coast  clear  to  you 
as  long  as  you  please." 

She  was  almost  thrown  from  the  seat  by  the  jarring  grind 
of  the  car  brought  to  a  sudden  standstill.  Molly  caught  her 
hands,  looked  into  her  face,  the  first  time  their  eyes  had 
met.     "  Do  you  mean  it  .  .  .  Sylvia  ?  " 

Sylvia  nodded,  much  agitated,  touched  by  the  other's 
pain,  half  ashamed  of  her  own  apparent  generosity  which 
was  to  mean  no  loss  to  her,  no  gain  to  Molly.  In  the  sudden 
becalmed  stillness  of  the  hot  afternoon  their  bright,  blown 
hair  fell  about  their  faces  in  shining  clouds. 

"I  didn't  understand  before,"  said  Sylvia;  and  she  was 
speaking  the  truth. 

"  And  you'll  let  him  alone  ?  You  won't  talk  to  him — play 
his  accompaniments — oh,  those  long  talks  of  yours !  " 

"  We've  been  talking,  you  silly  dear,  of  the  Renaissance 
compared  to  the  Twentieth  Century,  and  of  the  passing  of 
the  leisure  class,  and  all  the  beauty  they  always  create," 
said  Sylvia.  Again  she  spoke  the  literal  truth.  But  the 
true  truth,  burning  on  Molly's  tongue,  shriveled  this  to 
ashes.  "  You've  been  making  him  admire  you,  be  inter- 
ested in  you,  see  how  little  /  amount  to !  "  she  cried.  "  But 
if  you  don't  care  about  him  yourself — if  you'll — two  weeks, 
Sylvia — just  keep  out  for  two  weeks  .  .  ."  As  if  it  were 
part  of  the  leaping  forward  of  her  imagination,  she  sud- 
denly started  the  car  again,  and  with  a  whirling,  reck- 
less wrench  at  the  steering-wheel  she  had  turned  the 
car  about  and  was  racing  back  over  the  road  they  had 
come. 

M  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  cried  Sylvia  to  her,  above  the 
noise  of  their  progress. 

"  Back !  "  she  answered,  laughing  out.  "  What's  the  use  of 
going  on  now?"     She  opened  the  throttle  to  its  widest 


Nothing  in  the  Least  Modern  283 

and  pressing  her  lips  together  tightly,  gave  herself  up  to 
the  intoxication  of  speed. 

Once  she  said  earnestly :  "  You're  fine,  Sylvia !  I  never 
knew  a  girl  could  be  like  you !  "  And  once  more  she  threw 
out  casually :  "  Do  you  know  what  I  was  going  to  do  if  I 
found  out  you  and  Felix — if  you  hadn't  .  .  .  ?  I  was  going 
to  jump  the  car  over  the  turn  there  on  Prospect  Hill." 

Remembering  the  terrible  young  face  of  pain  and  wrath 
which  she  had  watched  on  the  way  out,  Sylvia  believed  her ; 
or  at  least  believed  that  she  believed  her.  In  reality,  her 
immortal  youth  was  incapable  of  believing  in  the  fact  of 
death  in  any  form.  But  the  words  put  a  stamp  of  tragic 
sincerity  on  their  wild  expedition,  and  on  her  companion's 
suffering.  She  thought  of  the  two  weeks  which  lay  before 
Molly,  and  turned  away  her  eyes  in  sympathy.  .  .  . 

Ten  days  after  this,  an  announcement  was  made  of  the 
engagement  of  Mary  Montgomery  Sommerville,  sole  heiress 
of  the  great  Montgomery  fortune,  to  Felix  Morrison,  the 
well-known  critic  of  aesthetics. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
MOLLY  IN  HER  ELEMENT 

Sylvia  faced  her  aunt's  dictum  with  heartsick  shrinking 
from  its  rigor;  but  she  recognized  it  as  an  unexaggerated 
statement  of  the  facts.  "  You  can't  go  home  now,  Sylvia — 
everybody  would  say  you  couldn't  stand  seeing  Molly's 
snatch  at  Felix  successful.  You  really  must  stay  on  to 
let  people  see  that  you  are  another  kind  of  girl  from 
Molly,  capable  of  impersonal  interest  in  a  man  of  Felix's 
brains." 

Sylvia  thought  of  making  the  obviously  suitable  remark 
that  she  cared  nothing  about  what  people  thought,  but  such 
a  claim  was  so  preposterously  untrue  to  her  character  that 
she  could  not  bring  the  words  past  her  lips.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  she  did  care  what  people  thought.  She  always  had ! 
She  always  would !  She  remained  silent,  looking  fixedly 
out  of  the  great,  plate-glass  window,  across  the  glorious 
sweep  of  blue  mountain-slope  and  green  valley  com- 
manded by  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  bedroom.  She  did  not 
resemble  the  romantic  conception  of  a  girl  crossed  in  love. 
She  looked  very  quiet,  no  paler  than  usual,  quite  self-pos- 
sessed. The  only  change  a  keen  eye  could  have  noted  was 
that  now  there  was  about  her  an  atmosphere  of  slightly  rigid 
dignity,  which  had  not  been  there  before.  She  seemed  less 
girlish. 

No  eyes  could  have  been  more  keenly  analytical  than 
those  of  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith.  She  saw  perfectly  the  new 
attribute,  and  realized  perfectly  what  a  resolute  stiffening 
of  the  will  it  signified.  She  had  never  admired  and  loved 
Sylvia  more,  and  being  a  person  adept  in  self-expression, 
she  saturated  her  next  speech  with  her  admiration  and 
affection.     "Of  course,  you  know,  my  dear,  that  I'm  not 

284. 


Molly  in  Her  Element  285 

one  of  the  herd.  I  know  entirely  that  your  feeling  for 
Felix  was  just  what  mine  is — immense  admiration  for  his 
taste  and  accomplishments.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  was 
apparent  to  every  one  that,  even  in  spite  of  all  Molly's 
money,  if  you'd  really  cared  to  .    .    . " 

Sylvia  winced,  actually  and  physically,  at  this  speech, 
which  brought  back  to  her  with  a  sharp  flick  the  egregious- 
ness  of  her  absurd  self-deception.  What  a  simpleton  she 
had  been — what  a  little  naive,  provincial  simpleton !  In  spite 
of  her  high  opinion  of  her  own  cleverness  and  knowledge  of 
people,  how  stupidly  steeped  she  had  been  in  the  childish, 
idiotic  American  tradition  of  entire  disinterestedness  in  the 
relations  of  men  and  women.  It  was  another  instance  of 
how  betrayed  she  constantly  was,  in  any  manceuver  in  the 
actual  world,  by  the  fatuous  idealism  which  had  so  colored 
her  youth — she  vented  her  emotion  in  despising  that  ideal- 
ism and  thinking  of  hard  names  to  call  it. 

"■ .  .  .  though  of  course  you  showed  your  intel- 
ligence by  not  really  caring  to,"  went  on  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  ;  "  it  would  have  meant  a  crippled  life  for  both  of 
you.  Felix  hasn't  a  cent  more  than  he  needs  for  himself. 
If  he  was  going  to  marry  at  all,  he  was  forced  to  marry 
carefully.  Indeed,  it  has  occurred  to  me  that  he  may  have 
thrown  himself  into  this,  because  he  was  in  danger  of  losing 
his  head  over  you,  and  knew  how  fatal  it  would  be.  For 
you,  you  lovely  thing  of  great  possibilities,  you  need  a  rich 
soil  for  your  roots,  too,  if  you're  to  bloom  out  as  you 
ought  to." 

Sylvia,  receiving  this  into  a  sore  and  raw  consciousness, 
said  to  herself  with  an  embittered  instinct  for  cynicism  that 
she  had  never  heard  more  euphonious  periphrases  for  sell- 
ing yourself  for  money.  For  that  was  what  it  came  down 
to,  she  had  told  herself  fiercely  a  great  many  times  during 
the  night  Felix  had  sold  himself  for  money  as  outright 
as  ever  a  woman  of  the  streets  had  done. 

Mrs.  Marshall- Smith,  continuing  steadily  to  talk  (on  the 
theory  that  talking  prevents  too  great  concentration  of 
thought),  and  making  the  round  of  all  the  possible  things 


.286  The  Bent  Twig 

to  say,  chanced  at  this  moment  upon  a  qualification  to  this 
theory  of  Morrison's  conduct  which  for  an  instant  caught 
Sylvia's  attention,  " and  then  there's  always  the  possi- 
bility that  even  if  you  had  cared  to — Molly  might  have  been 
too  much  for  you,  for  both  of  you.  She  always  has  had 
just  what  she  wanted — and  people  who  have,  get  the  habit. 
I  don't  know  if  you've  noticed  it,  in  the  little  you've  seen 
of  her,  but  it's  very  apparent  to  me,  knowing  her  from 
childhood  up  as  I  have,  that  there's  a  slight  coarseness 
of  grain  in  Molly,  when  it's  a  question  of  getting  what 
she  wants.  I  don't  mean  she's  exactly  horrid.  Molly's  a 
dear  in  her  way,  and  I'm  very  fond  of  her,  of  course.  If 
she  can  get  what  she  wants  without  walking  over  anybody's 
prostrate  body,  she'll  go  round.  But  there's  a  directness, 
a  brilliant  lack  of  fine  shades  in  Molly's  grab.  .  .  . 
It  makes  one  remember  that  her  Montgomery  grandfather 
had  firmness  of  purpose  enough  to  raise  himself  from  an 
ordinary  Illinois  farmer  to  arbiter  of  the  wheat  pit.  Such 
impossible  old  aunts — such  cousins — occasionally  crop  up 
still  from  the  Montgomery  connection.  But  all  with  the 
same  crude  force.  It's  almost  impossible  for  a  temperament 
like  Felix's  to  contend  with  a  nature  like  that." 

Sylvia  was  struck  by  the  reflection,  but  on  turning  it  over 
she  saw  in  it  only  another  reason  for  anger  at  Morrison. 
"  You  make  your  old  friend  out  as  a  very  weak  character," 
she  said. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  tolerant,  clear  view  of  the  infirmi- 
ties of  humanity  was  grieved  by  this  fling  of  youthful  sever- 
ity. "  Oh,  my  dear !  my  dear !  A  young,  beautiful,  enor- 
mendously  rich,  tremendously  enamored  girl?  That's  a 
combination !  I  don't  think  we  need  consider  Felix  exactly 
weak  for  not  having  resisted ! " 

Sylvia  thought  she  knew  reasons  for  his  not  yielding,  but 
she  did  not  care  to  discuss  them,  and  said  nothing. 

"  But  whether,"  continued  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  attempt- 
ing delicately  to  convey  the  only  reflection  supposed  to  be 
of  comfort  to  a  girl  in  Sylvia's  situation,  "  whether  or  not 
Molly  will  find  after  marriage  that  even  a  very  masterful 


Molly  in  Her  Element  287 

and  ruthless  temperament  may  fail  entirely  to  possess  and 
hold  the  things  it  has  grabbed  and  carried  off  .  .  ." 

Sylvia  repudiated  the  tacit  conception  that  this  would  be 
a  balm  to  her.  "  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  hope  they'll  manage !  "  she 
said  earnestly. 

"  Of  course !  Of  course !  "  agreed  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith. 
"  Who  doesn't  hope  so  ?  "  She  paused,  her  loquacity  run 
desperately  thin.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  car,  driving 
up  to  the  front  door.  Sylvia  rose  in  apprehension.  Her 
aunt  motioned  a  reassurance.  "  I  told  Tojiko  to  tell  every 
one  that  we  are  not  in — to  anybody." 

Helene  came  to  the  door  on  silent,  felt-shod  feet,  a  black- 
and-white  picture  of  well-trained  servility.  "  Pardon, 
Madame,  Tojiko  says  that  Mile.  Sommerville  wishes  to 
see  Mile.  Sylvie." 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  looked  with  considerable  apprehen- 
sion at  her  niece.  "  You  must  get  it  over  with  some  time, 
Sylvia.  It'll  be  easier  here  than  with  a  lot  of  people  staring 
at  you  both,  and  making  nasty  speculations."  Neither  she 
nor  Sylvia  noticed  that  for  an  instant,  in  her  haste,  she 
had  quite  dropped  her  careful  pretension  that  Sylvia  could, 
of  course,  if  she  had  really  cared  to.  .  .  . 

Sylvia  set  her  jaw,  an  action  curiously  visible  under  the 
smooth,  subtle  modeling  of  her  young  cheeks.  She  said  to 
Helene  in  a  quiet  voice:  ''  Zfais  bien  sur!  Tell  her  we're 
not  yet  dressed,  but  if  she  will  give  herself  the  trouble  to 
come  up.  .  .  ." 

Helene  nodded  and  retreated.    Sylvia  looked  rather  pale. 

"  You  don't  know  what  a  joy  your  perfect  French  is  to 
me,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall- Smith,  still  rapidly  turning 
every  peg  in  sight  in  an  endeavor  to  loosen  tension ;  but  no 
noticeable  relaxation  took  place  in  Sylvia.  It  did  not  seem 
to  her  at  just  that  moment  of  great  importance  that  she 
could  speak  good  French. 

With  desperate  haste  she  was  saying  to  herself,  "  At 
least  Molly  doesn't  know  about  anything.  I  told  her  I 
didn't  care.  She  believed  me.  I  must  go  on  pretending 
that  I  don't.    But  can  I !    But  can  I !  " 


288  The  Bent  Twig 

Light,  rapid  steps  came  flying  up  the  stairs  and  down  the 
long  hall.  "  Sylvia !  Sylvia !  "  Molly  was  evidently  hesi- 
tating between  doors. 

"  Here — this  way — last  door — Aunt  Victoria's  room !  " 
called  Sylvia,  and  felt  like  a  terror-stricken  actor  making  a 
first  public  appearance,  enormously  surprised,  relieved,  and 
heartened  to  find  her  usual  voice  still  with  her.  As  Molly 
came  flying  into  the  room,  she  ran  to  meet  her.  They  fell 
into  each  other's  arms  with  incoherent  ejaculations  and, 
under  the  extremely  appreciative  eye  of  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith,  kissed  each  other  repeatedly. 

"  Oh,  isn't  she  the  dear !  "  cried  Molly,  shaking  out  amply 
to  the  breeze  a  victor's  easy  generosity.  M  Isn't  she  the 
darlingest  girl  in  the  world!  She  understands  so!  When 
I  saw  how  perfectly  sweet  she  was  the  day  Arnold  and 
Judith  announced  their  engagement,  I  said  to  myself  I 
wanted  her  to  be  the  first  person  I  spoke  to  about  mine." 

The  approach  of  the  inexorable  necessity  for  her  first 
words  roused  Sylvia  to  an  inspiration  which  struck  out  an 
almost  visible  spark  of  admiration  from  her  aunt.  "  You 
just  count  too  much  on  my  being  '  queer,'  Molly,"  she  said 
playfully,  pulling  the  other  girl  down  beside  her,  with  an 
affectionate  gesture.  "  How  do  you  know  that  I'm  not  fear- 
fully jealous  of  you?  Such  a  charmer  as  your  fiance 
is!" 

Molly  laughed  delightedly.  "  Isn't  she  wonderful — not 
to  care  a  bit — really !  "  she  appealed  to  Sylvia's  aunt.  "  How 
anybody  could  resist  Felix — but  then  she's  so  clever.  She's 
wonderful !  " 

Sylvia,  smiling,  cordial,  clear-eyed  and  bitter-hearted, 
thought  that  she  really  was. 

"  But  I  can't  talk  about  it  here !  "  cried  Molly  restlessly. 
"  I  came  to  carry  Sylvia  off.  I  can't  sit  still  at  home.  I 
want  to  go  ninety  miles  an  hour!  I  can't  think  straight 
unless  I'm  behind  the  steering-wheel.    Come  along,  Sylvia !  " 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  thereupon  showed  herself,  for  all 
her  amenity  and  grace,  more  of  a  match  of  Molly's  force 
and  energy  than  either  Sylvia  or  Morrison  had  been  on  p 


Molly  in  Her  Element  289 

certain  rather  memorable  occasion  ten  days  before.  She 
opposed  the  simple  irresistible  obstacle  of  a  flat  command. 
"  Sylvia's  not  going  out  in  a  car  dressed  in  a  lace-trimmed 
negligee,  with  a  boudoir  cap  on,  whether  you  get  what  you 
want  the  minute  you  want  it  or  not,  Molly  Sommerville," 
she  said  with  the  authoritative  accent  which  had  always 
quelled  Arnold  in  his  boyhood  (as  long  as  he  was  within 
earshot).  The  method  was  effective  now.  Molly  laughed. 
Sylvia  even  made  shift  to  laugh;  and  Helene  was  sum- 
moned to  put  on  the  trim  shirt-waist,  the  short  cloth  skirt 
and  close  hat  which  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  selected  with  care 
and  the  history  of  which  she  detailed  at  length,  so  copiously 
that  there  was  no  opportunity  to  speak  of  anything  less 
innocuous.  Her  unusual  interest  in  the  matter  even  caused 
her  to  accompany  the  girls  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  still 
talking,  and  she  called  down  to  them  finally  as  they  went 
out  of  the  front  door,  ".  .  .  it's  the  only  way  with 
Briggs — he's  simply  incorrigible  about  delays — and  yet  no- 
body does  skirts  as  he  does !  You  just  have  to  tell  him 
you  will  not  take  it,  if  he  doesn't  get  it  done  on  time! " 

Sylvia  cast  an  understanding,  grateful  upward  look  at 
her  aunt  and  stepped  into  the  car.  So  far  it  had  gone  better 
than  she  feared.  But  a  tete-a-tete  with  Molly,  overflowing 
with  the  confidences  of  the  newly  betrothed — she  was  not 
sure  that  she  could  get  through  with  that  with  credit. 

Molly,  however,  seemed  as  little  inclined  to  overflow  as 
Sylvia  to  have  her.  She  talked  of  everything  in  the  world 
except  of  Felix  Morrison;  and  it  was  not  long  before 
Sylvia's  acuteness  discovered  that  she  was  not  thinking  of 
what  she  was  saying.  There  passed  through  her  mind  a 
wild,  wretched  notion  that  Molly  might  after  all  know — 
that  Felix  might  have  been  base  enough  to  talk  about  her 
to  Molly,  that  Molly  rnight  be  trying  to  "  spare  her."  But 
this  idea  was  instantly  rejected:  Molly  was  not  subtle 
enough  to  conceive  of  such  a  course,  and  too  headlong  not 
to  make  a  hundred  blunders  in  carrying  it  out ;  and  besides, 
it  would  not  explain  her  manner.  She  was  abstracted  ob- 
viously for  the  simple  reason  that  she  had  something  on 


290  The  Bent  Twig 

her  mind,  something  not  altogether  to  her  liking,  judging 
from  the  uneasy  color  which  came  and  went  in  her  face, 
by  her  rattling,  senseless  flow  of  chatter,  by  her  fidget- 
ing, unnecessary  adjustments  of  the  mechanism  of  the 
car.   .    .    . 

Sylvia  herself,  in  spite  of  her  greater  self-control,  looked 
out  upon  the  world  with  nothing  of  her  usual  eager  wel- 
come. The  personality  of  the  man  they  did  not  name  hung 
between  and  around  the  two  women  like  a  cloud.  As  they 
swept  along  rapidly,  young,  fair,  well-fed,  beautifully 
dressed,  in  the  costly,  shining  car,  their  clouded  faces  might 
to  a  country  eye  have  been  visible  proofs  of  the  country 
dictum  that  "  rich  city  folks  don't  seem  to  get  no  good 
out'n  their  money  and  their  automobiles:  always  layin' 
their  ears  back  and  lookin'  'bout  as  cheerful  as  a  balky 
horse." 

But  the  country  eyes  which  at  this  moment  fell  on  them 
were  anything  but  conscious  of  class  differences.  It  was 
a  desperate  need  which  reached  out  a  gaunt  claw  and  plucked 
at  them  when,  high  on  the  flank  of  the  mountain,  as  they 
swung  around  the  corner  of  a  densely  wooded  road,  they 
saw  a  wild-eyed  man  in  overalls  leap  down  from  the  bushes 
and  yell  at  them. 

Sylvia  was  startled  and  her  first  impression  was  the 
natural  feminine  one  of  fear — a  lonely  road,  a  strange 
man,  excited,  perhaps  drunk —  But  Molly,  without 
an  instant's  hesitation,  ground  the  car  to  a  stop  in 
a  cloud  of  dust.  "  What's  the  matter?"  she  shouted  as 
the  man  sprang  up  on  the  running-board.  He  was  gasp- 
ing, purple,  utterly  spent,  and  for  an  instant  could  only 
beat  the  air  with  his  hands.  Then  he  broke  out  in  a  hoarse 
shout — the  sound  in  that  quiet  sylvan  spot  was  like  a 
tocsin:  "  Fire!  An  awful  fire!  Hewitt's  pine  woods— up 
that  road !  "  He  waved  a  wild,  bare  arm — his  shirt-sleeve 
was  torn  to  the  shoulder.  "  Go  and  git  help.  They  need 
all  the  men  they  can  git !  " 

He  dropped  from  the  running-board  and  ran  back  up 
the  hill  through  the  bushes.    They  saw  him  lurch  from  one 


Molly  in  Her  Element  291 

side  to  the  other;  he  was  still  exhausted  from  his  dash 
down  the  mountain  to  the  road;  they  heard  the  bushes 
crash,  saw  them  close  behind  him.     He  was  gone. 

Sylvia's  eyes  were  still  on  the  spot  where  he  had  disap- 
peared when  she  was  thrown  violently  back  against  the 
seat  in  a  great  leap  forward  of  the  car.  She  caught  at  the 
side,  at  her  hat,  and  saw  Molly's  face.  It  was  transfigured. 
The  brooding  restlessness  was  gone  as  acrid  smoke  goes 
when  the  clear  flame  leaps  up. 

"  What  are  you  doing?  "  shouted  Sylvia. 

"  To  get  help,"  answered  Molly,  opening  the  throttle  an- 
other notch.  The  first  staggering  plunge  over,  the  car 
settled  down  to  a  terrific  speed,  purring  softly  its  puissant 
vibrant  song  of  illimitable  strength.  "  Hear  her  sing !  Hear 
her  sing ! "  cried  Molly.  In  three  minutes  from  the  time 
the  man  had  left  them,  they  tore  into  the  nearest  village, 
two  miles  from  the  woods.  It  seemed  that  in  those  three 
minutes  Molly  had  not  only  run  the  car  like  a  demon,  but 
had  formed  a  plan.  Slackening  speed  only  long  enough  to 
waltz  with  the  car  on  a  street-corner  while  she  shouted  an 
inquiry  to  a  passer-by,  she  followed  the  wave  of  his  hand 
and  flashed  down  a  side-street  to  a  big  brick  building  which 
proclaimed  itself  in  a  great  sign,  "  Peabody  Brush-back 
Factory." 

The  car  stopped.  Molly  sprang  out  and  ran  as  though 
the  car  were  a  rifle  and  she  the  bullet  emerging  from  it. 
She  ran  into  a  large,  ugly,  comfortable  office,  where  several 
white-faced  girls  were  lifting  their  thin  little  fingers  from 
typewriter  keys  to  stare  at  the  young  woman  who  burst 
through  and  in  at  a  door  marked  "  Manager." 

"  There's  a  fire  on  the  mountain — a  great  fire  in  Hewitt's 
pine  woods,"  she  cried  in  a  clear,  peremptory  voice  that 
sounded  like  a  young  captain  leading  a  charge.  "  I  can 
take  nine  men  on  my  car.  Will  you  come  with  me  and 
tell  which  men  to  go?" 

A  dignified,  elderly  man,  with  smooth,  gray  hair  and  a 
black  alpaca  office  coat,  sat  perfectly  motionless  behind  his- 
desk  and  stared  at  her  in  a  petrified  silence.    Molly  stamped 


292  The  Bent  Twig 

her  foot.  "  There's  not  an  instant  to  lose,"  she  said ;  "  they 
need  every  man  they  can  get." 

"  Who's  the  fire-warden  of  this  township  ? "  said  the 
elderly  man  foolishly,  trying  to  assemble  his  wits. 

Molly  appeared  visibly  to  propel  him  from  his  chair  by 
her  fury.  "  Oh,  they  need  help  NOW! "  she  cried.  "  Come 
on !     Come  on !  " 

Then  they  stood  together  on  the  steps  of  the  office. 
"  Those  men  unloading  lumber  over  there  could  go,"  said 
the  manager,  "  and  I'll  get  three  more  from  the  packing- 
rooms." 

"  Don't  go  yourself !  Send  somebody  to  get  them !  "  com- 
manded Molly.  "  You  go  and  telephone  anybody  in  town 
who  has  a  car.  There'll  be  sure  to  be  one  or  two  at  the 
garage." 

Sylvia  gasped  at  the  prodigy  taking  place  before  her  eyes, 
the  masterful,  keen-witted  captain  of  men  who  emerged 
like  a  thunderbolt  from  their  Molly — Molly,  the  pretty  little 
beauty  of  the  summer  colony  I 

She  had  galvanized  the  elderly  New  Englander  beside  her 
out  of  his  first  momentary  apathy  of  stupefaction.  He  now 
put  his  own  competent  hand  to  the  helm  and  took  com- 
mand. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  and  with  the  word  it  was  evident  that 
he  was  aroused.  Over  his  shoulder,  in  a  quiet  voice  that 
carried  like  the  crack  of  a  gun :  "  Henderson,  go  get  three 
men  from  the  packing-room  to  go  to  a  forest-fire.  Shut 
down  the  machinery.  Get  all  the  able-bodied  men  ready  in 
gangs  of  seven.  Perkins,  you  'phone  Tim  O'Keefe  to  bring 
my  car  here  at  once.  And  get  Pat's  and  Tom's  and  the 
two  at  the  hotel." 

"Tools?"  said  Molly. 

He  nodded  and  called  out  to  the  men  advancing  with  a 
rush  on  the  car :  "  There  are  hoes  and  shovels  inside  the 
power-house  door.    Better  take  some  axes  too." 

In  four  minutes  from  the  time  they  had  entered  the 
village  (Sylvia  had  her  watch  in  her  hand)  they  were  flying 
back,  the  car  packed  with  men  in  overalls  and  clustered 


Molly  in  Her  Element  293 

thick  with  others  on  the  running-board.  Back  of  them  the 
whistle  of  the  factory  shrieked  a  strident  announcement  of 
disaster.  Women  and  children  ran  to  the  doors  to  stare 
up  and  down,  to  cry  out,  to  look  and  with  dismayed  faces 
to  see  the  great  cloud  of  gray  smoke  pouring  up  from  the 
side  of  the  mountain.  There  was  no  soul  in  that  village 
who  did  not  know  what  a  forest-fire  meant. 

Then  in  a  flash  the  car  had  left  the  village  and  was 
rushing  along  the  dusty  highroad,  the  huge,  ominous  pillar 
of  smoke  growing  nearer.  The  men  stared  up  at  it  with 
sober  faces.    "  Pretty  hot  fire !  "  said  one  uneasily. 

They  reached  the  place  where  the  man  had  yelled  to 
them — ten  minutes  exactly  since  they  had  left  it.  Molly 
turned  the  car  into  the  steep  sandy  side-road  which  led  up 
the  mountain.  The  men  shouted  out  in  remonstrance, 
"  Hey,  lady !  You  can't  git  a  car  up  there.  We'll  have  to 
walk  the  rest  of  the  way.  They  don't  never  take  cars 
there." 

"  This  one  is  going  up,"  sang  out  Molly  gallantly,  almost 
gaily,  opening  the  throttle  to  its  fullest  and  going  into 
second  speed. 

The  sound  of  the  laboring  engine  jarred  loudly  through 
all  the  still,  hot  woods;  the  car  shook  and  trembled  under 
the  strain  on  it.  Molly  dropped  into  low.  A  cloud  of  evil- 
smelling  blue  gasoline  smoke  rose  up  from  the  exhaust 
behind,  but  the  car  continued  to  advance.  Rising  steadily, 
coughing  and  choking,  up  the  cruelly  steep  grades,  bump- 
ing heavily  down  over  the  great  water-bars,  smoking,  rat- 
tling, quivering — the  car  continued  to  advance.  A  trickle 
of  perspiration  ran  down  Molly's  cheeks.  The  floor  was 
hot  under  their  feet,  the  smell  of  hot  oil  pungent  in  their 
nostrils. 

They  were  eight  minutes  from  the  main  road  now,  and 
near  the  fire.  Over  the  trail  hung  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and, 
as  they  turned  a  corner  and  came  through  this,  they  saw 
that  they  had  arrived.  Sylvia  drew  back  and  crooked  her 
arm  over  her  eyes.  She  had  never  seen  a  forest  fire  before. 
She  came  from  the  plain-country,  where  trees  are  almost 


294  The  Bent  Twig 

sacred,  and  her  first  feeling  was  of  terror.  But  then  she 
dropped  her  arm  and  looked,  and  looked  again  at  the 
glorious,  awful  sight  which  was  to  furnish  her  with  night- 
mares for  months  to  come. 

The  fire  was  roaring  down  one  side  of  the  road  towards 
them,  and  away  to  the  right  was  eating  its  furious,  sulphur- 
ous way  into  the  heart  of  the  forest.  They  stopped  a  hun- 
dred feet  short,  but  the  blare  of  heat  struck  on  their  faces 
like  a  blow.  Through  the  dense  masses  of  smoke,  terrifying 
glimpses  of  fierce,  clean  flame ;  a  resinous  dead  stump  burn- 
ing like  a  torch ;  a  great  tree  standing  helpless  like  a  martyr 
at  the  stake,  suddenly  transformed  into  a  frenzied  pillar  of 
fire.  .  .  .  Along  the  front  of  this  whirlpool  of  flame 
toiled,  with  despairing  fury,  four  lean,  powerful  men. 
As  they  raised  their  blackened,  desperate  faces  and  saw 
the  car  there,  actually  there,  incredibly  there,  black  with 
its  load  of  men,  they  gave  a  deep-throated  shout  of  relief, 
though  they  did  not  for  an  instant  stop  the  frantic  plying 
of  their  picks  and  hoes.  The  nine  men  sprang  out,  their 
implements  in  their  hands,  and  dispersed  along  the  fighting- 
line. 

Molly  backed  the  car  around,  the  rear  wheels  churning 
up  the  sand,  and  plunged  down  the  hill  into  the  smoke. 
Through  the  choking  fumes  of  this,  Sylvia  shouted  at  her, 
"Molly!  Molly!  You're  great!''  She  felt  that  she  would 
always  hear  ringing  in  her  ears  that  thrilling,  hoarse  shout 
of  relief. 

Molly  shouted  in  answer,  "  I  could  scream,  I'm  so 
happy !  "  And  as  they  plunged  madly  down  the  mountain 
road,  she  said :  "  Oh,  Sylvia,  you  don't  know — I  never 
was  any  use  before — never  once — never!  I  got  the  first 
load  of  help  there !      How  they  shouted !  " 

At  the  junction  of  the  side-road  with  the  highway,  a 
car  was  discharging  a  load  of  men  with  rakes  and  picks. 
"  /  took  my  car  up ! "  screamed  Molly,  leaning  from  the 
steering  wheel  but  not  slackening  speed  as  she  tore  past 
them. 

The  driver  of  the  other  car,  a  young  man  with  the  face 


Molly  in  Her  Element  295 

of  a  fighting  Celt,  flushed  at  the  challenge  and,  motioning 
the  men  back  into  the  car,  started  up  the  sandy  hill.  Molly 
laughed  aloud.  "  I  never  was  so  happy  in  my  life ! "  she 
said  again. 

Both  girls  had  forgotten  the  existence  of  Felix  Morrison. 

They  passed  cars  now,  many  of  them,  streaming  south 
at  breakneck  speed,  full  to  overflowing  with  unsmiling 
men  in  working  clothes,  bristling  with  long-handled  imple- 
ments. But  as  they  fled  down  the  street  to  the  factory  they 
saw,  waiting  still,  some  twenty  or  more  men  in  overalls 
drawn  up,  ready,  armed,  resolute.   .    .    . 

"  How  strong  men  are !  "  said  Molly,  gazing  in  ecstasy 
at  this  array  of  factory  hands.  "  I  love  them !  "  She  added 
under  her  breath,  "  But  /  take  them  there !  " 

While  the  men  were  swarming  into  the  car,  the  gray- 
haired  manager  came  out  to  report,  as  though  to  an  officer 
equal  in  command,  "  I've  telephoned  to  Ward  and  Howe's 
marble-works  in  Chitford,"  he  said.  "  They've  sent  down 
fifty  men  from  there.  About  seventy-five  have  gone  from 
this  village.  I  suppose  all  the  farmers  in  that  district  are 
there  by  this  time." 

"  Will  they  ever  stop  it ! "  asked  Sylvia  despairingly, 
seeing  wherever  she  looked  nothing  but  that  ravening,  fiery 
leap  of  the  flames,  feeling  that  terrible  hot  breath  on  her 
cheek. 

The  question  and  accent  brought  the  man  for  the  first 
time  to  a  realization  of  the  girls'  youth  and  sex.  He  shifted 
to  paternal  reassurance.  "  Oh  yes,  oh  yes,"  he  said,  look- 
ing up  the  valley  appraisingly  at  the  great  volume  of  the 
smoke,  "with  a  hundred  and  fifty  men  there,  almost  at 
once,  they'll  have  it  under  control  before  long.  Everything 
with  a  forest  fire  depends  on  getting  help  there  quickly. 
Ten  men  there  almost  at  once  do  more  than  fifty  men  an 
hour  later.  That's  why  your  friend's  promptness  was  so 
important.  I  guess  it  might  have  been  pretty  bad  if  they'd 
had  to  wait  for  help  till  one  of  them  could  have  run  to 
the  village.  A  fire,  a  bad  fire  like  that,  gets  so  in  an  hour 
that  you  can't  stop  it — can't  stop  it  till  it  gets  out  where 


296  The  Bent  Twig 

you  can  plow  a  furrow  around  it.  And  that's  a  terrible 
place  for  a  fire  up  there.     Lots  of  slash  left." 

Molly  called  over  her  shoulder  to  the  men  climbing  on 
the  car,  "  All  ready  there  ?  "  and  was  off,  a  Valkyr  with 
her  load  of  heroes. 

Once  more  the  car  toiled  and  agonized  up  the  execrable 
sandy  steepness  of  the  side-road ;  but  in  the  twenty  minutes 
since  they  had  been  there  the  tide  had  turned.  Sylvia 
was  amazed  at  the  total  shifting  of  values.  Instead  of  four 
solitary  workers,  struggling  wildly  against  overwhelming 
odds,  a  long  line  of  men,  working  with  a  disciplined,  orderly 
haste,  stretched  away  into  the  woods.  Imperious  and  sav- 
age, the  smoke  and  swift  flames  towered  above  them,  leap- 
ing up  into  the  very  sky,  darkening  the  sun.  Bent  over 
their  rakes,  their  eyes  on  the  ground,  mere  black  specks 
against  the  raging  glory  of  the  fire,  the  line  of  men,  with 
an  incessant  monotonous  haste,  drew  away  the  dry  leaves 
with  their  rakes,  while  others  who  followed  them  tore  at 
the  earth  with  picks  and  hoes.  It  was  impossible  to  believe 
that  such  ant-labors  could  avail,  but  already,  near  the  road, 
the  fire  had  burnt  itself  out,  baffled  by  its  microscopic  as- 
sailants. As  far  as  the  girls  could  see  into  the  charred 
underbrush,  a  narrow,  clean  line  of  freshly  upturned  earth 
marked  where  the  fiercest  of  all  the  elements  had  been 
vanquished  by  the  humblest  of  all  the  tools  of  men.  Be- 
wildered, Sylvia's  eyes  shifted  from  the  toiling  men  to  the 
distance,  across  the  blackened  desolation  near  them,  to 
where  the  fire  still  tossed  its  wicked  crest  of  flames  defiantly 
into  the  forest.  She  heard,  but  she  did  not  believe  the 
words  of  the  men  in  the  car,  who  cried  out  expertly  as 
they  ran  forward,  "  Oh,  the  worst's  over.  They're  shutting 
down  on  it."  How  could  the  worst  be  over,  when  there  was 
still  that  whirling  horror  of  flame  and  smoke  beyond  them? 

Just  after  the  men  had  gone,  exultant,  relieved,  the 
girls  turned  their  heads  to  the  other  side  of  the  road, 
and  there,  very  silent,  very  secret  and  venomous,  leaped 
and  glittered  a  little  ring  of  flames.  An  hour  before,  it 
would  have  looked  a  pretty,  harmless  sight  to  the  two  who 


Molly  in  Her  Element  297 

now  sat,  stricken  by  horror  into  a  momentary  frozen  still- 
ness. The  flames  licked  at  the  dry  leaves  and  playfully 
sprang  up  into  a  clump  of  tall  dry  grass.  The  fire  was 
running  swiftly  towards  a  bunch  of  dead  alders  standing 
at  the  edge  of  the  forest.  Before  it  had  spread  an  inch 
further,  the  girls  were  upon  it,  screaming  for  help,  scream- 
ing as  people  in  civilization  seldom  scream,  with  all  their 
lungs.  With  uplifted  skirts  they  stamped  and  trod  out, 
under  swift  and  fearless  feet,  the  sinister,  silent,  yellow 
tongues.  They  snatched  branches  of  green  leaves  and  beat 
fiercely  at  the  enemy.  It  had  been  so  small  a  spot  compared 
to  the  great  desolation  across  the  road,  they  stamped  out 
the  flames  so  easily,  that  the  girls  expected  with  every 
breath  to  see  the  last  of  it.  To  see  it  escape  them,  to  see 
it  suddenly  flare  up  where  it  had  been  dead,  to  see  it 
appear  behind  them  while  they  were  still  fighting  it  in 
front,  was  like  being  in  a  nightmare  when  effort  is  im- 
possible. The  ring  widened  with  appalling,  with  unbe- 
lievable rapidity.  Sylvia  could  not  think  it  possible  that 
anything  outside  a  dream  could  have  such  devouring  swift- 
ness. She  trod  and  snatched  and  stamped  and  screamed, 
and  wondered  if  she  were  indeed  awake.   .    .    . 

Yet  in  an  instant  their  screams  had  been  heard,  three  or 
four  smoke-blackened  fire-fighters  from  beyond  the  road 
ran  forward  with  rakes,  and  in  a  twinkling  the  danger  was 
past.  Its  disappearance  was  as  incredible  as  its  presence. 
"Ain't  that  just  like  a  fire  in  the  woods?"  said  one  of 
the  men,  an  elderly  farmer.  He  drew  a  long,  tremulous 
breath.  "  It's  so  tarnation  quick !  It's  either  all  over  before 
you  can  ketch  your  breath,  or  it's  got  beyond  you  for  good.', 
It  evidently  did  not  occur  to  him  to  thank  the  girls  for 
their  part.  They  had  only  done  what  every  one  did  in  an 
emergency,  the  best  they  could.  He  looked  back  at  the 
burned  tract  on  the  other  side  of  the  road  and  said: 
"  They've  got  the  best  of  that  all  right,  too.  I  jest  heard 
'em  shoutin'  that  the  men  from  Chitford  had  worked  round 
from  the  upper  end.  So  they've  got  a  ring  round  it.  Nothin' 
to  do  now  but  watch  that  it  don't  jump.     My!     'Twas  a 


298  The  Bent  Twig 

close  call.  I've  been  to  a  lot  of  fires  in  my  day,  but  I 
d'know  as  I  ever  see  a  closeter  call !  " 

"It  can't  be  over!"  cried  Sylvia,  looking  at  the  lurid 
light  across  the  road.  "Why,  it  isn't  an  hour  since 
we " 

"Land!  No,  it  ain't  over!"  he  explained,  scornful 
of  her  inexperience.  "  They'll  have  to  have  a  gang 
of  men  here  watchin'  it  all  night — and  maybe  all  to- 
morrow— 'less  we  have  some  rain.  But  it  won't  go  no 
further  than  the  fire-line,  and  as  soon  as  there're  men 
enough  to  draw  that  all  around,  it's  got  to  stop ! "  He 
went  on  to  his  companion,  irritably,  pressing  his  hand  to 
his  side :  "  There  ain't  no  use  talkin',  I  got  to  quit  fire- 
fightin'.  My  heart  'most  gi'n  out  on  me  in  the  hottest 
of  that.    And  yit  I'm  only  sixty!  " 

"  It  ain't  no  job  for  old  folks,"  said  the  other  bitterly. 
**  If  it  had  ha'  gone  a  hundred  feet  further  that  way,  'twould 
ha'  been  in  where  Ed  Hewitt's  been  lumberin',  and  if  it  had 
got  into  them  dry  tops  and  brush — well,  I  guess  'twould 
ha'  gone  from  here  to  Chitford  village  before  it  stopped. 
And  'twouldn't  ha'  stopped  there,  neither ! 

The  old  man  said  reflectively :  "  'Twas  the  first  load  of 
men  did  the  business.  'Twas  nip  and  tuck  down  to  the 
last  foot  if  we  could  stop  it  on  that  side.  I  tell  you,  ten 
minutes  of  that  kind  o'  work  takes  about  ten  years  ofl'n  a 
man's  life.  We'd  just  about  gi'n  up  when  we  saw  'em 
coming.  I  bet  I  won't  be  no  gladder  to  see  the  pearly  gates 
than  I  was  to  see  them  men  with  hoes." 

Molly  turned  a  glowing,  quivering  face  of  pride  on  Sylvia, 
and  then  looked  past  her  shoulder  with  a  startled  expres- 
sion into  the  eyes  of  one  of  the  fire-fighters,  a  tall,  lean, 
stooping  man,  blackened  and  briar-torn  like  the  rest. 
"  Why,  Cousin  Austin !  "  she  cried  with  vehement  surprise, 

u  what  in  the  world "    In  spite  of  his  grime,  she  gave 

him  a  hearty,  astonished,  affectionate  kiss. 

"  I  was  just  wondering,"  said  the  man,  smiling  indul- 
gently down  on  her,  "  how  soon  you'd  recognize  me,  you 
little  scatter-brain." 


Molly  in  Her  Element  299 

"  I  thought  you  were  going  to  stick  in  Colorado  all  sum- 
mer," said  Molly. 

"  Well,  I  heard  they  were  short  of  help  at  Austin 
Farm  and  I  came  on  to  help  get  in  the  hay,"  said  the  man. 
Both  he  and  Molly  seemed  to  consider  this  a  humorous 
speech.  Then,  remembering  Sylvia,  Molly  went  through 
a  casual  introduction.  "  This  is  my  cousin — Austin  Page — 
my  favorite  cousin!  He's  really  awfully  nice,  though  so 
plain  to  look  at."  She  went  on,  still  astonished,  "  But 
how'd  you  get  here?  " 

"  Why,  how  does  anybody  in  Vermont  get  to  a  forest 
fire  ?  "  he  answered.  "  We  were  out  in  the  hayfield,  saw 
the  smoke,  left  the  horses,  grabbed  what  tools  we  could 
find,  and  beat  it  through  the  woods.  That's  the  technique 
of  the  game  up  here." 

"  I  didn't  know  your  farm  ran  anywhere  near  here," 
said  Molly. 

"  It  isn't  so  terribly  near.  We  came  across  lots  tolerable 
fast.  But  there's  a  little  field,  back  up  on  the  edge  of  the 
woods  that  isn't  so  far.  Grandfather  used  to  raise  potatoes 
there.    I've  got  it  into  hay  now,"  he  explained. 

As  they  talked,  the  fire  beyond  them  gave  definite  signs 
of  yielding.  It  had  evidently  been  stopped  on  the  far  side 
and  now  advanced  nowhere,  showed  no  longer  a  malign 
yellow  crest,  but  only  rolling  sullenly  heavenward  a  dimin- 
ishing cloud  of  smoke.  The  fire-fighters  began  to  straggle 
back  across  the  burned  tract  towards  the  road,  their  eyeballs 
gleaming  white  in  their  dark  faces. 

"  Oh,  they  mustn't  walk !  I'll  take  them  back — the 
darlings !  "  said  Molly,  starting  for  her  car.  She  was  quite 
her  usual  brisk,  free-and-easy  self  now.  "  Cracky !  I  hope 
I've  got  gas  enough.     I've  certainly  been  going  some!" 

"  Why  don't  you  leave  me  here  ?  "  suggested  Sylvia.  "  I'll 
walk  home.    That'll  leave  room  for  one  more." 

"  Oh,  you  can't  do  that !  "  protested  Molly  faintly,  though 
she  was  evidently  at  once  struck  with  the  plan.  "  How'd 
you  find  your  way  home  ? "  She  turned  to  her  cousin. 
"  See  here,  Austin,  why  don't  you  take  Sylvia  home  ?    You 


300  The  Bent  Twig 

ought  to  go  anyhow  and  see  Grandfather.  He'll  be  awfully 
hurt  to  think  you're  here  and  haven't  been  to  see  him." 
She  threw  instantly  into  this  just  conceived  idea  the  force 
which  always  carried  through  her  plans.  "  Do  go !  I  feel 
so  grateful  to  these  men  I  don't  want  one  of  them  to  walk 
a  step !  " 

Sylvia  had  thought  of  a  solitary  walk,  longing  intensely 
for  isolation,  and  she  did  not  at  all  welcome  the  suggestion 
of  adapting  herself  to  a  stranger.  The  stranger,  on  his 
part,  looked  a  very  unchivalrous  hesitation ;  but  this  proved 
to  be  only  a  doubt  of  Sylvia's  capacity  as  a  walker. 

"  If  you  don't  mind  climbing  a  bit,  I  can  take  you  over 
the  gap  between  Hemlock  and  Windward  Mountain  and 
make  a  bee-line  for  Lydford.  It's  not  an  hour  from  here, 
that  way,  but  it's  ten  miles  around  by  the  road — and  hot 
and  dusty  too." 

"Can  she  climb!"  ejaculated  Molly  scornfully,  impatient 
to  be  off  with  her  men.  "  She  went  up  to  Prospect  Rock 
in  forty  minutes." 

She  high-handedly  assumed  that  everything  was  settled 
as  she  wished  it,  and  running  towards  the  car,  called  with 
an  easy  geniality  to  the  group  of  men,  starting  down  the 
road  on  foot,  "  Here,  wait  a  minute,  folks,  I'll  take  you 
back!" 

She  mounted  the  car,  started  the  engine,  waved  her  hand 
to  the  two  behind  her,  and  was  off. 

The  lean,  stooping  man  looked  dubiously  at  Sylvia. 
"  You're  sure  you  don't  mind  a  little  climb  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh  no,  I  like  it,"  she  said  listlessly.  The  moment  for 
her  was  of  stale,  wearied  return  to  real  life,  to  the  actual 
world  which  she  was  continually  finding  uglier  than  she 
hoped.  The  recollection  of  Felix  Morrison  came  back  tc 
her  in  a  bitter  tide. 

"  All  ready  ?  "  asked  her  companion,  mopping  his  fore- 
head with  a  very  dirty  handkerchief. 

"  All  ready,"  she  said  and  turned,  with  a  hanging  head, 
to  follow  him. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

BETWEEN  WINDWARD  AND  HEMLOCK 
MOUNTAINS 

For  a  time  as  they  plodded  up  the  steep  wood-road,  over- 
grown with  ferns  and  rank  grass,  with  dense  green  walls  of 
beech  and  oak  saplings  on  either  side,  what  few  desultory 
remarks  they  exchanged  related  to  Molly,  she  being  literally 
the  only  topic  of  common  knowledge  between  them.  Sylvia, 
automatically  responding  to  her  deep-lying  impulse  to  give 
pleasure,  to  be  pleasing,  made  an  effort  to  overcome  her 
somber  lassitude  and  spoke  of  Molly's  miraculous  com- 
petence in  dealing  with  the  fire.  Her  companion  said  that 
of  course  Molly  hadn't  made  all  that  up  out  of  her  head  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  "  After  spending  every  summer 
of  her  life  in  Lydford,  it  would  be  surprising  if  so  ener- 
getic a  child  as  Molly  hadn't  assimilated  the  Vermont 
formula  for  fighting  fire.  "  They  always  put  for  the  nearest 
factory  and  get  all  hands  out/'  he  explained,  adding  medi- 
tatively, as  he  chewed  on  a  twig :  "  All  the  same,  the  inci- 
dent shows  what  I've  always  maintained  about  Molly:  that 
she  is,  like  'most  everybody,  lamentably  miscast.  Molly's 
spirit  oughtn't  to  have  taken  up  its  abiding  place  in  that 
highly  ornamental  blond  shell,  condemned  after  a  fashion- 
able girl's  education  to  pendulum  swings  between  Paris  and 
New  York  and  Lydford.  It  doesn't  fit  for  a  cent.  It 
ought  to  have  for  habitation  a  big,  gaunt,  powerful  man's 
body,  and  for  occupation  the  running  of  a  big  factory." 
He  seemed  to  be  philosophizing  more  to  himself  than  to 
Sylvia,  and  beyond  a  surprised  look  into  his  extremely 
grimy  face,  she  made  no  comment.  She  had  taken  for 
granted  from  the  talk  between  him  and  Molly  that  he  was 
one  of  the  "  forceful,  impossible  Montgomery  cousins,"  and 

301  . 


302  The  Bent  Twig 

had  cast  her  own  first  remarks  in  a  tone  calculated  to  fit  in 
with  the  supposititious  dialect  of  such  a  person.  But  his 
voice,  his  intonations,  and  his  whimsical  idea  about  Molly 
fitted  in  with  the  conception  of  an  "  impossible  "  as  little 
as  with  the  actual  visible  facts  of  his  ragged  shirt-sleeves 
and  faded,  earth-stained  overalls.  They  toiled  upwards  in 
silence  for  some  moments,  the  man  still  chewing  on  his 
birch-twig.  He  noticed  her  sidelong  half-satirical  glance  at 
it.  "  Don't  you  want  one  ? "  he  asked,  and  gravely  cut  a 
long,  slim  rod  from  one  of  the  saplings  in  the  green  wall 
shutting  them  into  the  road.  As  he  gave  it  to  her  he  ex- 
plained, "  It's  the  kind  they  make  birch  beer  of.  You  nip 
off  the  bark  with  your  teeth.    You'll  like  it." 

Still  more  at  sea  as  to  what  sort  of  person  he  might  be, 
and  now  fearing  perhaps  to  wound  him  if  he  should  turn 
out  to  be  a  very  unsophisticated  one,  Sylvia  obediently  set 
her  teeth  to  the  lustrous,  dark  bark  and  tore  off  a  bit,  which 
gave  out  in  her  mouth  a  mild,  pleasant  aromatic  tang, 
woodsy  and  penetrating,  unlike  any  other  taste  she  knew. 
"Good,  isn't  it?"  said  her  companion   simply. 

She  nodded,  slowly  awakening  to  a  tepid  curiosity  about 
the  individual  who  strode  beside  her,  lanky  and  powerful  in 
his  blue  jeans.  What  an  odd  circumstance,  her  trudging 
off  through  the  woods  thus  with  a  guide  of  whom  she  knew 
nothing  except  that  he  was  Molly  Sommerville's  cousin 
and  worked  a  Vermont  farm — and  had  certainly  the  dirtiest 
face  she  had  ever  seen,  with  the  exception  of  the  coal-black- 
ened stokers  in  the  power-house  of  the  University.  He 
spoke  again,  as  though  in  answer  to  what  might  naturally  be 
in  her  mind :  "  At  the  top  of  the  road  it  crosses  a  brook, 
and  I  think  a  wash  would  be  possible.  I've  a  bit  of  soap 
in  my  pocket  that'll  help — though  it  takes  quite  a  lot  of 
scrubbing  to  get  off  fire-fighting  grime."  He  looked  poinr- 
edly  down  at  her  as  he  talked. 

Sylvia  was  so  astonished  that  she  dropped  back  through 
years  of  carefully  acquired  self-consciousness  into  a  moment 
of  the  stark  simplicity  of  childhood.  "  Why — is  my  face 
dirty  ?  "  she  cried  out. 


Between  Windward  and  Hemlock  Mountains    303 

The  man  beside  her  apparently  found  the  contrast  be- 
tween her  looks  and  the  heartfelt  sincerity  of  her  question 
too  much  for  him.  He  burst  into  helpless  laughter,  though 
he  was  adroit  enough  to  thrust  forward  as  a  pretext,  "  The 
picture  of  my  own  grime  that  I  get  from  your  accent  is 
tremendous !  "  But  it  was  evidently  not  at  his  own  joke 
that  he  was  laughing. 

For  an  instant  Sylvia  hung  poised  very  near  to  extreme 
annoyance.  Never  since  she  had  been  grown  up,  had  she 
appeared  at  such  an  absurd  disadvantage.  But  at  once  the 
mental  picture  of  herself,  making  inaudible  carping  strictures 
on  her  companion's  sootiness  and,  all  unconscious,  lifting  to 
observe  it  a  critical  countenance  as  swart  as  his  own — » 
the  incongruity  smote  her  deliciously,  irresistibly!  Sore 
heart  or  not,  black  depression  notwithstanding,  she  needs 
must  laugh,  and  having  laughed,  laugh  again,  laugh  louder 
and  longer,  and  finally,  like  a  child,  laugh  for  the  sake  of 
laughing,  till  out  through  this  unexpected  channel  she  dis- 
charged much  of  the  stagnant  bitterness  around  her  heart. 

Her  companion  laughed  with  her.  The  still,  sultry  sum- 
mer woods  echoed  with  the  sound.  "  How  human,  how 
lusciously  human! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Neither  of  us  thought 
that  he  might  be  the  blackened  one ! " 

"  Oh,  mine  can't  be  as  bad  as  yours ! "  gasped  out  Sylvia, 
but  when  she  rubbed  a  testing  handkerchief  on  her  cheek, 
she  went  off  in  fresh  peals  at  the  sight  of  the  resultant 
black  smears. 

"  Don't,  for  Heaven's  sake,  waste  that  handkerchief," 
cautioned  her  companion.  "  It's  the  only  towel  between  us. 
Mine's  impossible !  "  He  showed  her  the  murky  rag  which 
was  his  own;  and  as  they  spoke,  they  reached  the  top  of 
the  road,  heard  the  sound  of  water,  and  stood  beside  the 
brook. 

He  stepped  across  it,  in  one  stride  of  his  long  legs,  rolled 
up  his  shirt-sleeves,  took  a  book  out  of  his  pocket,  laid  it 
on  a  stone,  and  knelt  down.  "  I  choose  this  for  my  wash- 
basin," he  said,  indicating  a  limpid  pool  paved  with  clean 
gray  pebbles. 


304  The  Bent  Twig 

Sylvia  answered  in  the  same  note  of  play,  "This'll  be 
mine."  It  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  tiny  waterfall,  plashing 
with  a  tinkling  note  into  transparent  shallows.  She  cast 
an  idle  glance  on  the  book  he  had  laid  down  and  read  its 
title,  "A  History  of  the  Institution  of  Property,"  and  re- 
flected that  she  had  been  right  in  thinking  it  had  a  familiar- 
looking  cover.  She  had  dusted  books  with  that  sort  of  cover 
all  her  life. 

Molly's  cousin  produced  from  his  overalls  a  small  piece 
of  yellow  kitchen-soap,  which  he  broke  into  scrupulously 
exact  halves  and  presented  with  a  grave  flourish  to  Sylvia. 
"  Now,  go  to  it,"  he  exhorted  her ;  "  I  bet  I  get  a  better 
wash  than  you." 

Sylvia  took  off  her  hat,  rolled  up  her  sleeves,  and  began? 
on  vigorous  ablutions.  She  had  laughed,  yes,  and  heartily, 
but  in  her  complicated  many-roomed  heart  a  lively  pique 
rubbed  shoulders  with  her  mirth,  and  her  merriment  was 
tinctured  with  a  liberal  amount  of  the  traditional  feminine 
horrified  disgust  at  having  been  uncomely,  at  having  uncon- 
sciously been  subjected  to  an  indignity.  She  was  determined 
that  no  slightest  stain  should  remain  on  her  smooth,  fine- 
textured  skin.  She  felt,  as  a  pretty  woman  always  feels, 
that  her  personality  was  indissolubly  connected  with  her 
looks,  and  it  was  a  symbolic  act  which  she  performed  as 
she  fiercely  scrubbed  her  face  with  the  yellow  soap  till  its 
acrid  pungency  blotted  out  for  her  the  woodland  aroma  of 
moist  earth  and  green  leaves.  She  dashed  the  cold  water 
up  on  her  cheeks  till  the  spattering  drops  gleamed  like 
crystals  on  the  crisp  waviness  of  her  ruddy  brown  hair. 
She  washed  her  hands  and  arms  in  the  icy  mountain  water 
till  they  were  red  with  the  cold,  hot  though  the  day  was. 
She  was  chilled,  and  raw  with  the  crude  astringency  of  the 
soap,  but  she  felt  cleansed  to  the  marrow  of  her  bones,  as 
though  there  had  been  some  mystic  quality  in  this  lustration 
in  running  water,  performed  under  the  open  sky.  The 
racy,  black-birch  tang  still  lingering  on  her  tongue  was  a 
flavor  quite  in  harmony  with  this  severely  washed  feeling. 
It  was  a  taste  notably  clean. 


Between  Windward  and  Hemlock  Mountains    305 

She  looked  across  the  brook  at  her  companion,  now  sitting 
back  on  his  heels,  and  saw  that  there  had  emerged  from 
his  grime  a  thin,  tanned,  high-nosed  face,  topped  by  drab- 
colored  hair  of  no  great  abundance  and  lighted  by  a  pair 
of  extraordinarily  clear,  gray  eyes.  She  perceived  no  more 
in  the  face  at  that  moment,  because  the  man,  as  he  looked  up 
at  her,  became  nothing  but  a  dazzled  mirror  from  which 
was  reflected  back  to  her  the  most  flattering  image  of  her 
own  appearance.  Almost  actually  she  saw  herself  as  she 
appeared  to  him,  a  wood-nymph,  kneeling  by  the  flowing 
water,  vital,  exquisite,  strong,  radiant  in  a  cool  flush,  her 
uncovered  hair  gleaming  in  a  thousand  loosened  waves. 
Like  most  comely  women  of  intelligence  Sylvia  was  in- 
timately familiar  with  every  phase  of  her  own  looks,  and 
she  knew  down  to  the  last  blood-corpuscle  that  she  had 
never  looked  better.  But  almost  at  once  came  the  stab 
that  Felix  Morrison  was  not  the  man  who  was  looking 
at  her,  and  the  heartsick  recollection  that  he  would  never 
again  be  there  to  see  her.  Her  moment  of  honest  joy  in 
being  lovely  passed.  She  stood  up  with  a  clouded  face, 
soberly  pulled  down  her  sleeves,  and  picked  up  her  hat. 

"Oh,  why  don't  you  leave  it  off?"  said  the  man  across 
the  brook.  "  You'd  be  so  much  more  comfortable !  "  She 
knew  that  he  meant  her  hair  was  too  pretty  to  cover,  and 
did  not  care  what  he  meant.  "  All  right,  I'll  carry  it,"  she 
assented  indifferently. 

He  did  not  stir,  gazing  up  at  her  frankly  admiring. 
Sylvia  made  out,  from  the  impression  he  evidently  now  had 
of  her,  that  her  face  had  really  been  very,  very  dirty;  and 
at  the  recollection  of  that  absurd  ascent  of  the  mountain 
by  those  two  black-faced,  twig-chewing  individuals,  a  re- 
turn of  irrepressible  laughter  quivered  on  her  lips.  Be- 
fore his  eyes,  as  swiftly,  as  unaccountably,  as  utterly  as  an 
April  day  shifts  its  moods,  she  had  changed  from  radiant, 
rosy  wood-goddess  to  saddened  mortal  and  thence  on  into 
tricksy,  laughing  elf.  He  burst  out  on  her,  "  Who  are  you, 
anyhow  ? " 

She  remembered  with  a  start.     "  Why,  that's  so,  Molly 


306  The  Bent  Twig 

didn't  mention  my  name — isn't  that  like  Molly !  Why,  I'm 
Sylvia  Marshall/' 

"  You  may  be  named  Sylvia  Marshall ! "  he  said,  leaving 
an  inference  in  the  air  like  incense. 

"  Well,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  rejoined  Sylvia;  "  I  heard  some- 
body only  the  other  day  say  that  an  introduction  was  the 
quaintest  of  grotesques,  since  people's  names  are  the 
most " 

He  applied  a  label  with  precision.  "  Oh,  you  know 
Morrison  ?  " 

She  was  startled  at  this  abrupt  emergence  of  the  name 
which  secretly  filled  her  mind  and  was  aware  with  exas- 
peration that  she  was  blushing.  Her  companion  appeared 
not  to  notice  this.  He  was  attempting  the  difficult  feat  of 
wiping  his  face  on  the  upper  part  of  his  sleeve,  and  said  in 
the  intervals  of  effort :  "  Well,  you  know  my  name.  Molly 
didn't  forget  that." 

"  But  /  did,"  Sylvia  confessed.  "  I  was  so  excited  by 
the  fire  I  never  noticed  at  all.  I've  been  racking  my  brains 
to  remember,  all  the  way  up  here." 

For  some  reason  the  man  seemed  quite  struck  with  this 
statement  and  eyed  her  with  keenness  as  he  said :  "  Oh — 
really?  Well,  my  name  is  Austin  Page."  At  the  candid 
blankness  of  her  face  he  showed  a  boyish  flash  of  white 
teeth  in  a  tanned  face.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  never 
heard  of  me?  " 

"  Should  I  ?  "  said  Sylvia,  with  a  graceful  pretense  of 
alarm.  "  Do  you  write,  or  something?  Lay  it  to  my  igno- 
rance.   It's  immense." 

He  shook  his  head.  He  smiled  down  on  her.  She 
noticed  now  that  his  eyes  were  very  kind  as  well  as  clear 
and  keen.  "  No,  I  don't  write,  or  anything.  There's  no 
reason  why  you  should  ever  have  heard  of  me.  I  only 
thought — I  thought  possibly  Molly  or  Uncle  George  might 
have  happened  to  mention  me." 

"  I'm  only  on  from  the  West  for  a  visit,"  explained 
Sylvia.  "  I  never  was  in  Lydford  before.  I  don't  know 
the  people  there." 


Between  Windward  and  Hemlock  Mountains    307 

"  Well  then,  to  avoid  Morrison's  strictures  on  introduc- 
tions I'll  add  to  my  name  the  information  that  I  am 
thirty-two  years  old;  a  graduate  of  Columbia  University; 
that  I  have  some  property  in  Colorado  which  gives  me  a 
great  deal  of  trouble;  and  a  farm  with  a  wood  lot  in  Ver- 
mont which  is  the  joy  of  my  heart.  I  cannot  endure 
politics ;  I  play  the  flute,  like  my  eggs  boiled  three  minutes, 
and  admire  George  Meredith." 

His  manceuvers  with  his  sleeve  were  so  preposterous 
that  Sylvia  now  cried  to  him :  "  Oh,  don't  twist  around  that 
way.  You'll  give  yourself  a  crick  in  the  neck.  Here's  my 
handkerchief.    We  were  going  to  share  that,  anyhow." 

"And  you,"  he  went  on  gravely,  wiping  his  face  with 
the  bit  of  cambric,  "are  Sylvia  Marshall,  presumably 
Miss ;  you  can  laugh  at  a  joke  on  yourself ;  are  not  afraid 
to  wash  your  face  with  kitchen  soap;  and  apparently  are 
the  only  girl  in  the  twentieth  century  who  has  not  a 
mirror  and  a  powder-puff  concealed  about  her  person." 

All  approbation  was  sweet  to  Sylvia.  She  basked  in 
this.  c*  Oh,  I'm  a  Hottentot,  a  savage  from  the  West,  as 
I  told  you,"  she  said  complacently. 

"  You've  been  in  Lydford  long  enough  to  hear  Morrison 
hold  forth  on  the  idiocies  of  social  convention,  the  while  he 
neatly  manipulates  them  to  his  own  advantage." 

Sylvia  had  dreaded  having  to  speak  of  Morrison,  but 
she  was  now  greatly  encouraged  by  the  entire  success  of 
her  casual  tone,  as  she  explained,  "  Oh,  he's  an  old  friend 
of  my  aunt's,  and  he's  been  at  the  house  a  good  deal."  She 
ventured  to  try  herself  further,  and  inquired  with  a  bright 
look  of  interest,  "  What  do  you  think  of  his  engagement 
to  your  cousin  Molly  ?  " 

He  was  petrified  with  astonishment.  "Molly  engaged 
to  Morrison!"  he  cried.  "We  can't  be  talking  about  the 
same  people.     I  mean  Felix  Morrison  the  critic." 

She  felt  vindicated  by  his  stupefaction  and  liked  him  for 
it.  "  Why,  yes,  hadn't  you  heard  ?  "  she  asked,  with  an 
assumption  of  herself  seeing  nothing  surprising  in  the  news. 

"  No,  I  hadn't,  and  I  can't  believe  it  now ! "  he  said, 


308  The  Bent  Twig 

blinking  his  eyes.  "  I  never  heard  such  an  insane  com- 
bination of  names  in  my  life."  He  went  on,  "  What  under 
the  sun  does  Molly  want  of  Morrison !  " 

Sylvia  was  vexed  with  him  for  this  unexpected  view. 
He  was  not  so  discerning  as  she  had  thought.  She  turned 
away  and  picked  up  her  hat.  "  We  ought  to  be  going  on," 
she  said,  and  as  they  walked  she  answered,  "  You  don't 
seem  to  have  a  very  high  opinion  of  Mr.  Morrison." 

He  protested  with  energy.  "  Oh  yes,  I  have.  Quite  the 
contrary,  I  think  him  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men 
I  know,  and  one  of  the  finest.  I  admire  him  immensely. 
I'd  trust  his  taste  sooner  than  I  would  my  own." 

To  this  handsome  tribute  Sylvia  returned,  smiling,  "  The 
inference  is  that  you  don't  think  much  of  Molly." 

"  I  know  Molly !  "  he  said  simply.  "  I've  known  her 
and  loved  her  ever  since  she  was  a  hot-tempered,  imperious 
little  girl — which  is  all  she  is  now.  Engaged  .  .  .  and 
engaged  to  Morrison !  It's  a  plain  case  of  schoolgirl  in- 
fatuation !  "  He  was  lost  in  wonder,  uneasy  wonder  it 
seemed,  for  after  a  period  of  musing  he  brought  out: 
"  They'll  cut  each  other's  throats  inside  six  months.  Or 
Molly'll  cut  her  own.  What  under  the  sun  was  her 
grandfather  thinking  of  ?  " 

Sylvia  said  gravely,  "  Girls'  grandfathers  have  such  an 
influence  in  their  marriages." 

He  smiled  a  rueful  recognition  of  the  justice  of  her 
thrust  and  then  fell  into  silence. 

The  road  did  not  climb  up  now,  but  led  along  the  side 
of  the  mountain.  Through  the  dense  woods  the  sky-line, 
first  guessed  at,  then  clearly  seen  between  the  thick- 
standing  tree-trunks,  sank  lower  and  lower.  "  We  are 
approaching,"  said  Page,  motioning  in  front  of  them, 
"  the  jumping-off  place."  They  passed  from  the  tempered 
green  light  of  the  wood  and  emerged  upon  a  great  windy 
plateau,  carpeted  thickly  with  deep  green  moss,  flanked 
right  and  left  with  two  mountain  peaks  and  roofed  over 
with  an  expanse  of  brilliant  summer  sky.  Before  them  the 
plateau  stretched  a  mile  or  more,  wind-swept,  sun-drenched, 


Between  Windward  and  Hemlock  Mountains    309 

with  an  indescribable  bold  look  of  great  altitude;  but  close 
to  them  at  one  side  ran  a  parapet-like  line  of  tumbled  rock 
and  beyond  this  a  sheer  descent.  The  eye  leaped  down 
abrupt  slopes  of  forest  to  the  valley  they  had  left,  now  a 
thousand  feet  below  them,  jewel-like  with  mystic  blues 
and  greens,  tremulous  with  heat.  On  the  noble  height 
where  they  stood,  the  wind  blew  cool  from  the  sea  of  mist- 
blue  peaks  beyond  the  valley. 

Sylvia  was  greatly  moved.  "  Oh,  what  a  wonderful 
spot !  "  she  said  under  her  breath.    "  I  never  dreamed  that 

anything  could  be "     She  burst  out  suddenly,  scarcely 

knowing  what  she  said,  "  Oh,  I  wish  my  mother  could  be 
here !  "  She  had  not  thought  of  her  mother  for  days,  and 
now  hardly  knew  that  she  had  spoken  her  name.  Standing 
there,  poised  above  the  dark  richness  of  the  valley,  her 
heart  responding  to  those  vast  airy  spaces  by  an  upward- 
soaring  sweep,  the  quick  tears  of  ecstasy  were  in  her  eyes. 
She  had  entirely  forgotten  herself  and  her  companion.  He 
did  not  speak.     His  eyes  were  on  her  face. 

She  moved  to  the  parapet  of  rock  and  leaned  against  it. 
The  action  brought  her  to  herself  and  she  flashed  around 
on  Page  a  grateful  smile.  "  It's  a  very  beautiful  spot  you've 
brought  me  to/'  she  said. 

He  came  up  beside  her  now.  "  It's  a  favorite  of  mine," 
he  said  quietly.  "  If  I  come  straight  through  the  woods  it's 
not  more  than  a  mile  from  my  farm.  I  come  up  here  for 
the  sunsets  sometimes — or  for  dawn." 

Sylvia  found  the  idea  almost  too  much  for  her.  "  Oh!" 
she  cried — "  dawn  here  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  smiling  faintly.    "  It's  all  of  that !  " 

In  her  life  of  plains  and  prairies  Sylvia  had  never  been 
upon  a  great  height,  had  never  looked  down  and  away  upon 
such  reaches  of  far  valley,  such  glorious  masses  of  sunlit 
mountain;  and  beyond  them,  giving  wings  to  the  imagina- 
tion, were  mountains,  more  mountains,  distant,  incalculably 
distant,  with  unseen  hollow  valleys  between;  and  finally, 
mountains  again,  half  cloud,  melting  indistinguishably  into 
the  vaporous  haze  of  the  sky.    Above  her,  sheer  and  vast, 


310  The  Bent  Twig 

lay  Hemlock  Mountain,  all  its  huge  bulk  a  sleeping,  pas- 
sionless calm.  Beyond  was  the  solemnity  of  Windward 
Mountain's  concave  shell,  full  to  the  brim  with  brooding 
blue  shadows,  a  well  of  mystery  in  that  day  of  wind-blown 
sunshine.  Beneath  her,  above  her,  before  her,  seemingly 
the  element  in  which  she  was  poised,  was  space,  illimitable 
space.  She  had  never  been  conscious  of  such  vastness,  she 
was  abashed  by  it,  she  was  exalted  by  it,  she  knew  a  mo- 
ment of  acute  shame  for  the  pettiness  of  her  personal 
grievances.  For  a  time  her  spirit  was  disembarrassed  of 
the  sorry  burden  of  egotism,  and  she  drank  deep  from  the 
cup  of  healing  which  Nature  holds  up  in  such  instants  of 
beatitude.     Her  eyes  were  shining  pools  of  peace.  .  .  . 

They  went  on  in  a  profound  silence  across  the  plateau, 
the  deep,  soft  moss  bearing  them  up  with  a  tough  elasticity, 
the  sun  hot  and  lusty  on  their  heads,  the  sweet,  strong 
summer  wind  swift  and  loud  in  their  ears,  the  only  sound 
in  all  that  enchanted  upland  spot.  Often  Sylvia  lifted  her 
face  to  the  sky,  so  close  above  her,  to  the  clouds  moving 
with  a  soundless  rhythm  across  the  sky;  once  or  twice  she 
turned  her  head  suddenly  from  one  side  to  the  other,  to 
take  in  all  the  beauty  at  one  glance,  and  smiled  on  it  all, 
a  vague,  sunny,  tender  smile.    But  she  did  not  speak. 

As  she  trod  on  the  thick  moss  upspringing  under  her 
long,  light  step,  her  advance  seemed  as  buoyant  as  though 
she  stepped  from  cloud  to  cloud.  .  .  . 

When  they  reached  the  other  side,  and  were  about  to 
begin  the  descent  into  Lydford  valley,  she  lingered  still. 
She  looked  down  into  the  valley  before  her,  across  to  the 
mountains,  and,  smiling,  with  half-shut  eyes  of  supreme 
satisfaction,  she  said  under  her  breath :  "  It's  Beethoven — 
just  the  blessedness  of  Beethoven !  The  valley  is  a  legato 
passage,  quiet  and  flowing;  those  far,  up-pricking  hills, 
staccato;  and  the  mountains  here,  the  solemn  chords." 

Her  companion  did  not  answer.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
inquiringly,  thinking  that  he  had  not  heard  her,  and  found 
him  evidently  too  deeply  moved  to  speak.  She  was  startled, 
almost  frightened,  almost   shocked  by  the  profundity  of 


Between  Windward  and  Hemlock  Mountains    3 1 1 

his  gaze  upon  her.  Her  heart  stood  still  and  gave  a  great 
leap.  Chiefly  she  was  aware  of  an  immense  astonishment 
and  incredulity.  An  hour  before  he  had  never  seen  her, 
had  never  heard  of  her — and  during  that  hour  she  had  been 
barely  aware  of  him,  absorbed  in  herself,  indifferent.  How 
could  he  in  that  hour  have  .  .  . 

He  looked  away  and  said  steadily,  " — and  the  river  is 
the  melody  that  binds  it  all  together." 

Sylvia  drew  a  great  breath  of  relief.  She  had  been  the 
victim  of  some  extraordinary  hallucination:  " — with  the 
little  brooks  for  variations  on  the  theme,',  she  added  hastily. 

He  held  aside  an  encroaching  briar,  stretching  its  thorny 
arm  across  the  path.  "  Here's  the  beginning  of  the  trail 
down  to  Lydford,"  he  said.  "  We  will  be  there  in  twenty 
minutes.    It's  almost  a  straight  drop  down." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
SYLVIA  ASKS  HERSELF  "WHY  NOT?" 

If  Sylvia  wondered,  as  she  dropped  down  the  heights  to 
the  valley,  what  her  reception  might  be  at  her  aunt's  cere- 
monious household  when  she  entered  escorted  by  a  strange 
hatless  man  in  blue  overalls,  her  fancy  fell  immeasurably 
short  of  the  actual  ensuing  sensation.  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith,  her  stepson,  Felix  Morrison,  and  old  Mr.  Sommer- 
ville  were  all  sitting  together  on  the  wide  north  veranda, 
evidently  waiting  to  be  called  to  luncheon  when,  at  half- 
past  one,  the  two  pedestrians  emerged  through  a  side 
wicket  in  the  thick  green  hedge  of  spruce,  and  advanced 
up  the  path,  with  the  free,  swinging  step  of  people  who 
have  walked  far  and  well.  The  effect  on  the  veranda  was 
unimaginable.  Sheer,  open-mouthed  stupefaction  blurred 
for  an  instant  the  composed,  carefully  arranged  masks  of 
those  four  exponents  of  decorum.  They  gaped  and  stared, 
unable  to  credit  their  eyes. 

And  then,  according  to  their  natures,  they  acted.  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith  rose  quickly,  smiled  brilliantly,  and  stepped 
forward  with  welcoming  outstretched  hands.  "  Why,  Sylvia 
dear,  how  delightful!  What. an  unexpected  pleasure,  Mr. 
Page ! " 

Old  Mr.  Sommerville  fairly  bounded  past  Sylvia,  caught 
the  man's  arm,  and  said  in  an  anxious,  affectionate,  startled 
voice,  "  Why,  Austin !  Austin !  Austin !  " 

Morrison  rose,  but  stood  quietly  by  his  chair,  his  face 
entirely  expressionless,  palpably  and  correctly  "  at  atten- 
tion." He  had  not  seen  Sylvia  since  the  announcement 
of  his  engagement  the  day  before.  He  gave  her  now  a 
graceful,  silent,  friendly  salute  from  a  distance  as  she 
stood  by  her  aunt,  he  called  out  to  her  companion  a  richly 

312 


Sylvia  Asks  Herself  "  Why  Not?"       313 

cordial  greeting  of  "  Well,  Page.  This  is  luck  indeed !  " 
but  he  indicated  by  his  immobility  that  as  a  stranger  he 
would  not  presume  to  go  further  until  the  first  interchange 
between  blood-kin  was  over. 

As  for  Arnold,  he  neither  stirred  from  his  chair,  nor 
opened  his  mouth  to  speak.  A  slow  smile  widened  on  his 
lips :  it  expanded.  He  grinned  delightedly  down  at  his 
cigarette,  and  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  finally  broke  into  an 
open  laugh  of  exquisite  enjoyment  of  the  scene  before  him. 

Four  people  were  talking  at  once;  Mr.  Sommerville,  a 
dismayed  old  hand  still  clutching  at  the  new-comer,  was 
protesting  with  extreme  vigor,  and  being  entirely  drowned 
out  by  the  others,  "  Of  course  he  can't  stay — as  he  is!  I'll 
go  home  with  him  at  once!  His  room  at  my  house  is 
always  ready  for  him ! — fresh  clothes  ! — No,  no — impossible 
to  stay !  "  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  was  holding  firm  with  her 
loveliest  manner  of  warm  friendliness  concentrated  on 
Page.  "  Oh,  no  ceremony,  Mr.  Page,  not  between  old 
friends.  Luncheon  is  just  ready — who  cares  how  you 
look?"  She  did  not  physically  dispute  with  Mr.  Sommer- 
ville the  possession  of  the  new-comer,  but  she  gave  entirely 
that  effect. 

Sylvia,  unable  to  meet  Morrison's  eyes,  absorbed  in  the 
difficulty  of  the  moment  for  her,  unillumined  by  the  byplay 
between  her  aunt  and  old  Mr.  Sommerville,  strove  for  an 
appearance  of  vivacious  loquacity,  and  cast  into  the  con- 
versation entirely  disregarded  bits  of  description  of  the 
fire.     "Oh,  Tantine,  such  an  excitement! — we  took  nine 

men  with  hoes  up  such  a  steep !  "     And  finally  Page, 

resisting  old  Mr.  Sommerville's  pull  on  his  arm,  was  say- 
ing :  "  If  luncheon  is  ready,  and  I'm  invited,  no  more  needs 
to  be  said.  I've  been  haying  and  fire-fighting  since  seven 
this  morning.  A  wolf  is  nothing  compared  with  me."  He 
looked  across  the  heads  of  the  three  nearest  him  and 
called  to  Arnold :  "  Smith,  you'll  lend  me  some  flannels, 
won't  you?    We  must  be  much  of  the  same  build." 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  turned,  taking  no  pains  to  hide  her 
satisfaction.     She   positively   gloated   over   the   crestfallen 


3 14  The  Bent  Twig 

Mr.  Sommerville.  "  Sylvia,  run  quick  and  have  Helene 
smooth  your  hair.  And  call  to  Tojiko  to  put  on  an  extra 
place  for  luncheon.  Arnold,  take  Mr.  Page  up  to  your 
room,  won't  you,  so  that  he " 

Sylvia,  running  up  the  stairs,  heard  her  late  companion 
protesting:  "Oh,  just  for  a  change  of  clothes,  only  a 
minute — you  needn't  expect  me  to  do  any  washing.  I'm 
clean.  I'm  washed  within  an  inch  of  my  life — yellow 
soap — kitchen  soap !  " 

"  And  our  little  scented  toilet  futilities,"  Morrison's 
cameo  of  small-talk  carried  to  the  upper  hall.  "  What  could 
they  add  to  such  a  Spartan  lustration  ?  " 

"  Hurry,  Helene,"  said  Sylvia.  "  It  is  late,  and  Mr.  Page 
is  dying  of  hunger." 

In  spite  of  the  exhortation  to  haste,  Helene  stopped 
short,  uplifted  brush  in  hand.  "  Mr.  Page,  the  million- 
aire ! "  she  exclaimed. 

Sylvia  blinked  at  her  in  the  glass,  amazed  conjectures 
racing  through  her  mind.  But  she  had  sufficient  self- 
possession  to  say,  carelessly  as  though  his  identity  was 
nothing  to  her :  "  I  don't  know.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have 
seen  him.    He  certainly  is  not  handsome." 

Helene  thrust  in  the  hairpins  with  impassioned  haste 
and  deftness,  and  excitedly  snatched  a  lace  jacket  from  a 
drawer.  To  the  maid's  despair  Sylvia  refused  this  adorn- 
ment, refused  the  smallest  touch  of  rouge,  refused  an  orna- 
ment in  her  hair.  Helene  wrung  her  hands.  "  But  see, 
Mademoiselle  is  not  wise !  For  what  good  is  it  to  be  so 
savage!  He  is  more  rich  than  all!  They  say  he  owns 
all  the  State  of  Colorado !  " 

Sylvia,  already  in  full  retreat  towards  the  dining-room, 
caught  this  last  geographic  extravagance  of  Gallic  fancy, 
and  laughed,  and  with  this  mirth  still  in  her  face  made 
her  re-entry  on  the  veranda.  She  had  not  been  away  three 
minutes  from  the  group  there,  and  she  was  to  the  eye  as 
merely  flushed  and  gay  when  she  came  back  as  when  she 
went  away;  but  a  revolution  had  taken  place.  Closely 
shut  in  her  hand,  she  held,  held  fast,  the  key  Helene  had 


Sylvia  Asks  Herself  "  Why  Not?"      315 

thrust  there.  Behind  her  smile,  her  clear,  bright  look  of 
valiant  youth,  a  great  many  considerations  were  being 
revolved  with  extreme  rapidity  by  an  extremely  swift  and 
active  brain. 

Swift  and  active  as  was  the  brain,  it  fairly  staggered 
under  the  task  of  instantly  rearranging  the  world  according 
to  the  new  pattern :  for  the  first  certainty  to  leap  into  sight 
was  that  the  pattern  was  utterly  changed  by  the  events  of  the 
morning.  She  had  left  the  house,  betrayed,  defenseless  save 
for  a  barren  dignity,  and  she  had  re-entered  it  in  triumph, 
or  at  least  with  a  valid  appearance  of  triumph,  an  appear- 
ance which  had  already  tided  her  over  the  aching  difficulty 
of  the  first  meeting  with  Morrison  and  might  carry  her 
.  .  .  she  had  no  time  now  to  think  how  far. 

Page  and  Arnold  were  still  invisible  when  she  emerged 
again  on  the  veranda,  and  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  pounced 
on  her  with  the  frankest  curiosity.  "  Sylvia,  do  tell  us — 
how  in  the  world " 

Sylvia  was  in  the  midst  of  a  description  of  the  race  to 
the  fire,  as  vivid  as  she  could  make  it,  when  Arnold  saun- 
tered back  and  after  him,  in  a  moment,  Page,  astonishingly 
transformed  by  clothes.  His  height  meant  distinction  now. 
Sylvia  noted  again  his  long,  strong  hands,  his  aquiline, 
tanned  face  and  clear  eyes,  his  thoughtful,  observant  eyes. 
There  was  a  whimsical  quirk  of  his  rather  thin  but 
gentle  lips  which  reminded  her  of  the  big  bust  of  Emerson 
in  her  father's  study.  She  liked  all  this ;  but  her  suspicious- 
ness, alert  for  affront,  since  the  experience  with  Morrison, 
took  offense  at  his  great  ease  of  manner.  It  had  seemed 
quite  natural  and  unaffected  to  her,  in  fact  she  had  not 
at  all  noticed  it  before ;  but  now  that  she  knew  of  his  great 
wealth,  she  instantly  conceived  a  resentful  idea  that  possibly 
it  might  come  from  the  self-assurance  of  a  man  who  knows 
himself  much  courted.  She  held  her  head  high,  gave  to 
him  as  to  Arnold  a  nod  of  careless  recognition,  and  con- 
tinued talking :  "  Such  a  road — so  steep — sand  half-way 
to  the  hubs,  such  water-bars !  "  She  turned  to  Morrison 
with  her  first  overt  recognition  of  the  new  status  between 


316  The  Bent  Twig 

them.  "  You  ought  to  have  seen  your  fiancee !  She  was 
wonderful !     I  was  proud  of  her !  " 

Morrison  nodded  a  thoughtful  assent.  "  Yes,  Molly's 
energy  is  irresistible,"  he  commented,  casting  his  remark 
in  the  form  of  a  generalization  the  significance  of  which 
did  not  pass  unnoticed  by  Sylvia's  sharp  ears.  They  were 
the  first  words  he  had  spoken  to  her  since  his  engagement. 

"  Luncheon  is  ready,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith.  "  Do 
come  in."  Every  one  by  this  time  being  genuinely  hungry, 
and  for  various  reasons  extremely  curious  about  the  hap- 
penings back  of  Sylvia's  appearance,  the  meal  was  dedicated 
frankly  to  eating,  varied  only  by  Sylvia's  running  account 
of  the  fire.  "  And  then  Molly  wanted  to  take  the  fire- 
fighters home,  and  I  offered  to  walk  to  have  more  room 
for  them,  and  Mr.  Page  brought  me  up  the  other  side  of 
Hemlock  and  over  the  pass  between  Hemlock  and  Wind- 
ward and  down  past  Deer  Cliff,  home,"  she  wound  up, 
compressing  into  tantalizing  brevity  what  was  patently  for 
her  listeners  by  far  the  most  important  part  of  the  expedi- 
tion. 

"  Well,  whatever  route  he  took,  it  is  astonishing  that  he 
knew  the  way  to  Lydford  at  all,"  commented  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall-Smith. "  I  don't  believe  you've  been  here  before  for 
years ! "  she  said  to  Page. 

"  It's  my  confounded  shyness,"  he  explained,  turning 
to  Sylvia  with  a  twinkle.  "The  grand,  sophisticated  ways 
of  Lydford  are  too  much  for  the  nerves  of  a  plain-living 
rustic  like  me.  When  I  farm  in  Vermont  the  spirit  of  the 
place  takes  hold  of  me.  I'm  quite  apt  to  eat  my  pie  with 
my  knife,  and  Lydford  wouldn't  like  that." 

Sylvia  was  aware,  through  the  laughter  which  followed 
this  joking  remark,  that  there  was  an  indefinable  stir 
around  the  table.  His  turning  to  her  had  been  pronounced. 
She  took  a  sore  pleasure  in  Morrison's  eclipse.  For  the 
first  time  he  was  not  the  undisputed  center  of  that  circle. 
He  accepted  it  gravely,  a  little  preoccupied,  a  little  absent, 
a  wonderfully  fine  and  dignified  figure.  Under  her 
misanthropic  exultation,   Sylvia  felt  again  and  again  the 


Sylvia  Asks  Herself  "Why  Not?"      317 

stab  of  her  immense  admiration  for  him,  her  deep  affinity 
for  his  way  of  conducting  life.  Whatever  place  he  might 
take  in  the  circle  around  the  luncheon  table,  she  found  him 
inevitably  at  the  center  of  all  her  own  thoughts.  However 
it  might  seem  to  those  evidently  greatly  struck  with  her 
extraordinary  good  luck,  her  triumph  was  in  reality  only 
the  most  pitiful  of  pretenses.  But  such  as  it  was,  and  it 
gleamed  richly  enough  on  the  eyes  of  the  onlookers,  she 
shook  it  out  with  a  flourish  and  gave  no  sign  of  heartsick 
qualms.  She  gave  a  brilliantly  undivided  attention  to  the 
bit  of  local  history  Page  was  telling  her,  of  a  regiment  of 
Green  Mountain  Boys  who  had  gone  down  to  the  Battle  of 
Bennington  over  the  pass  between  Windward  and  Hem- 
lock Mountain,  and  she  was  able  to  stir  Page  to  enthusiasm 
by  an  appreciative  comparison  of  their  march  with  the 
splendid  and  affecting  incident  before  Marathon,  when  the 
thousand  hoplites  from  the  little  town  of  Platasa  crossed 
the  Cithaeron  range  and  went  down  to  the  plain  to  join 
the  Athenians  in  their  desperate  stand. 

"  How  do  you  happen  to  come  East  just  now,  any- 
how ?  "  inquired  old  Mr.  Sommerville,  resolutely  shoulder- 
ing his  way  into  the  conversation. 

"  My  yellow  streak ! "  affirmed  his  nephew.  "Colorado 
got  too  much  for  me.  And  besides,  I  was  overcome  by  an 
atavistic  longing  to  do  chores."  He  turned  to  Sylvia 
again,  the  gesture  as  unconscious  and  simple  as  a  boy's. 
"  My  great-grandfather  was  a  native  of  these  parts,  and 
about  once  in  so  often  I  revert  to  type." 

"  All  my  mother's  people  came  from  this  region  too," 
Sylvia  said.  She  added  meditatively,  "And  I  think  I 
must  have  reverted  to  type — up  there  on  the  mountain,  this 
morning." 

He  looked  at  her  silently,  with  softening  eyes. 

"  You'll  be  going  back  soon,  I  suppose,  as  usual ! "  said 
old  Mr.  Sommerville  with  determination. 

"  To  Colorado  ?  "  inquired  Page.  "  No,  I  think — I've  a 
notion  I'll  stay  on  this  summer  for  some  time.  There  is 
an  experiment  I  want  to  try  with  alfalfa  in  Vermont." 


318  The  Bent  Twig 

Over  his  wineglass  Arnold  caught  Sylvia's  eye,  and 
winked. 

"  Still  reading  as  much  as  ever,  I  suppose."  Mr.  Som- 
merville  was  not  to  be  put  down.  "  When  I  last  saw  you, 
it  was  some  fool  socialistic  poppycock  about  the  iniquity 
of  private  exploitation  of  natural  resources.  How'd  they 
ever  have  been  exploited  any  other  way  I'd  like  to  know! 
What's  socialism?  Organized  robbery!  Nothing  elsel 
*  Down  with  success !  Down  with  initiative !  Down  with 
brains!'    Stuff!" 

"  It's  not  socialism  this  time :  it's  Professor  Merritt's 
theories  on  property,"  said  Sylvia  to  the  old  gentleman, 
blandly  ignoring  his  ignoring  of  her. 

Page  stared  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  Are  you  a  clair- 
voyant ?  "  he  cried. 

"  No,  no,"  she  explained,  laughing.  "  You  took  it  out 
of  your  pocket  up  there  by  the  brook." 

"  But  you  saw  only  the  title.  Merritt's  name  isn't  on 
the  cover." 

"  Oh,  it's  a  pretty  well-known  book,"  said  Sylvia  easily. 
"  And  my  father's  a  professor  of  Economics.  When  I  was 
little  I  used  to  have  books  like  that  to  build  houses  with, 
instead  of  blocks.  And  I've  had  to  keep  them  in  order  and 
dusted  ever  since.  I'm  not  saying  that  I  know  much  about 
their  insides." 

"  Just  look  there !  "  broke  in  Arnold.  "  Did  I  ever  see 
a  young  lady  pass  up  such  a  perfectly  good  chance  to 
bluff!" 

As  usual  nobody  paid  the  least  attention  to  his  remark. 
The  conversation  shifted  to  a  radical  play  which  had  been 
on  the  boards  in  Paris,  the  winter  before. 

After  luncheon,  they  adjourned  into  the  living-room.  As 
the  company  straggled  across  the  wide,  dimly  shining, 
deeply  shaded  hall,  Sylvia  felt  her  arm  seized  and  held, 
and  turning  her  head,  looked  into  the  laughing  face  of 
Arnold.  "  What  kind  of  flowers  does  Judy  like  the  best?" 
he  inquired,  the  question  evidently  the  merest  pretext  to 
detain  her,  for  as  the  others  moved  out  of  earshot  he  said 


Sylvia  Asks  Herself  "Why  Not?"      319 

in  a  delighted  whisper,  his  eyes  gleaming  in  the  dusk  with 
amused  malice :  "  Go  it,  Sylvia !  Hit  'em  out !  It's  worth 
enduring  oceans  of  Greek  history  to  see  old  Sommerville 
squirm.  Molly  gone — Morrison  as  poor  as  a  church 
mouse ;  and  now  Page  going  fast  before  his  very  eyes " 

She  shook  off  his  hand  with  genuine  annoyance.  "  I 
don't  know  what  you're  talking  about,  Arnold.  You're 
horrid!  Judith  doesn't  like  cut  flowers  at  all, — any  kind. 
She  likes  them  alive,  on  plants." 

"  She  would!"  Arnold  was  rapt  in  his  habitual  certainty 
that  every  peculiarity  of  Judith's  was  another  reason  for 
prostrate  adoration.  "  I'll  send  her  a  window-box  for 
every  window  in  the  hospital."  His  admiration  overflowed 
to  Judith's  sister.  He  patted  her  on  the  shoulder.  "  You're 
all  right  too,  Sylvia.  You're  batting  about  three-sixty,  right 
now.  I've  always  told  the  girls  when  they  said  Page  was 
offish  that  if  they  could  only  get  in  under  his  guard  once — 
and  somehow  you've  done  it.  I  bet  on  you "  He  be- 
gan to  laugh  at  her  stern  face  of  reproof.  "  Oh,  yes,  yes, 
I  agree!  You  don't  know  what  I'm  talking  about!  It's 
just  alfalfa  in  Vermont!  Only  my  low  vulgarity  to  think 
anything  else !  "  He  moved  away  down  the  hall.  "  Beat 
it!     I  slope!" 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked. 

"  Away !  Away !  "  he  answered.  "  Anywhere  that's 
away.  The  air  is  rank  with  Oscar  Wilde  and  the  Renais- 
sance. I  feel  them  coming."  Still  laughing,  he  bounded 
upstairs,  three  steps  at  a  time. 

Sylvia  stepped  forward,  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
living-room,  and  paused  by  the  piano,  penetrated  by  bitter- 
sweet associations.  If  Morrison  felt  them  also,  he  gave  no 
sign.  He  had  chosen  a  chair  by  a  distant  window  and 
was  devoting  himself  to  Molly's  grandfather,  who  accepted 
this  delicate  and  entirely  suitable  attention  with  a  rather 
glum  face.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  and  Page  still  stood  in 
the  center  of  the  room,  and  turned  as  Sylvia  came  in. 
"  Do  give  us  some  music,  Sylvia,"  said  her  aunt,  sinking 
into  a  chair  while  Page  came  forward  to  sit  near  the  piano. 


320  The  Bent  Twig 

Sylvia's  fingers  rested  on  the  keys  for  a  moment,  her 
face  very  grave,  almost  somber,  and  then,  as  though  taking 
a  sudden  determination,  she  began  to  play  a  Liszt  Liebes- 
Traum.  It  was  the  last  music  Morrison  had  played  to  her 
before  the  beginning  of  the  change.  Into  its  fevered 
cadences  she  poured  the  quivering,  astonished  hurt  of  her 
young  heart. 

No  one  stirred  during  the  music  nor  for  the  moment 
afterward,  in  which  she  turned  about  to  face  the  room.  She 
looked  squarely  at  Morrison,  who  was  rolling  a  cigarette 
with  meticulous  care,  and  as  she  looked,  he  raised  his  eyes 
and  gave  her  across  the  room  one  deep,  flashing  glance  of 
profound  significance.  That  was  all.  That  was  enough. 
That  was  everything.  Sylvia  turned  back  to  the  piano 
shivering,  hot  and  cold  with  secret  joy.  His  look  said, 
"  Yes,  of  course,  a  thousand  times  of  course,  you  are  the 
one  in  my  heart/'  What  the  facts  said  for  him  was,  "  But 
I  am  going  to  marry  Molly  because  she  has  money." 

Sylvia  was  horrified  that  she  did  not  despise  him,  that 
she  did  not  resent  his  entering  her  heart  again  with  the 
intimacy  of  that  look.  Her  heart  ran  out  to  welcome  him 
back;  but  from  the  sense  of  furtiveness  she  shrank  back 
with  her  lifetime  habit  and  experience  of  probity,  with  the 
instinctive  distaste  for  stealth  engendered  only  by  long  and 
unbroken  acquaintance  with  candor.  With  a  mental  action 
as  definite  as  the  physical  one  of  freeing  her  feet  from  a 
quicksand  she  turned  away  from  the  alluring,  dim  possi- 
bility opened  to  her  by  that  look.  No,  no !  No  stains,  no 
smears,  no  shufflings !  She  was  conscious  of  no  moral  im- 
pulse, in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word.  Her  imagination 
took  in  no  possibility  of  actual  wrong.  But  when,  with  a 
fastidious  impulse  of  good  taste,  she  turned  her  back  on 
something  ugly,  she  turned  her  back  unwittingly  on  some- 
thing worse  than  ugly. 

But  it  was  not  easy!  Oh,  not  at  all  easy!  She  quailed 
with  a  sense  of  her  own  weakness,  so  unexpected,  so  fright- 
ening. Would  she  resist  it  the  next  time?  How  pierced 
with  helpless  ecstasy  she  had  been  by  that  interchange  of 


Sylvia  Asks  Herself  "  Why  Not?"      321 

glances !  What  was  there,  in  that  world,  by  which  she 
could  steady  herself? 

"  How  astonishingly  well  you  play,"  said  Page,  rousing 
himself  from  the  dreamy  silence  of  appreciation. 

"  I  ought  to,"  she  said  with  conscious  bitterness.  "  I 
earn  my  living  by  teaching  music." 

She  was  aware  from  across  the  room  of  an  electric 
message  from  Aunt  Victoria  protesting  against  her  per- 
versity; and  she  reflected  with  a  morose  amusement  that 
however  delicately  phrased  Aunt  Victoria's  protests  might 
be,  its  substance  was  the  same  as  that  of  Helene,  crying 
out  on  her  for  not  adding  the  soupcon  of  rouge.  She  took 
a  sudden  resolution.  Well,  why  not?  Everything  con- 
spired to  push  her  in  that  direction.  The  few  factors  which 
did  not  were  mere  imbecile  idealism,  or  downright  hy- 
pocrisy. She  drew  a  long  breath.  She  smiled  at  Page,  a 
smile  of  reference  to  something  in  common  between  them. 
"Shan't  I  play  you  some  Beethoven?"  she  asked,  "some- 
thing with  a  legato  passage  and  great  solemn  chords,  and 
a  silver  melody  binding  the  whole  together?" 

"  Oh  yes,  do !  "  he  said  softly.  And  in  a  moment  she 
was  putting  all  of  her  intelligence,  her  training,  and  her 
capacity  to  charm  into  the  tones  of  the  E-flat  Minuet. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
A  HYPOTHETICAL  LIVELIHOOD 

The  millionaire  proprietor  had  asked  them  all  over  o 
the  Austin  Farm,  and  as  they  drew  near  the  end  of  y.e<e 
very  expensive  and  delicately  served  meal  which  Page  had 
spoken  of  as  a  "  picnic-lunch,"  various  plans  for  the  dis- 
position of  the  afternoon  were  suggested.  These  sugges- 
tions were  prefaced  by  the  frank  statement  of  the  owner 
of  the  place  that  whatever  else  the  others  did,  it  was  his 
own  intention  to  take  Miss  Marshall  through  a  part  of 
his  pine  plantations  and  explain  his  recent  forestry  opera- 
tions to  her.  The  assumption  that  Miss  Marshall  would 
of  course  be  interested  in  his  pine  plantations  and  lumber- 
ing operations  struck  nobody  but  Miss  Marshall  as  queer. 
With  the  most  hearty  and  simple  unconsciousness,  they 
unanimously  felt  that  of  course  Miss  Marshall  would  be 
interested  in  the  pine  plantations  and  the  lumbering  opera- 
tions of  any  man  who  was  worth  nobody  knew  how  many 
millions  in  coal,  and  who  was  so  obviously  interested  in  her. 

Sylvia  had  been  for  some  weeks  observing  the  life  about 
her  with  very  much  disillusioned  eyes  and  she  now  labeled 
the  feeling  on  the  part  of  her  friends  with  great  accuracy, 
saying  to  herself  cynically,  "  If  it  were  prize  guinea-pigs  or 
collecting  beer-steins,  they  would  all  be  just  as  sure  that  I 
would  jump  up  and  say,  '  Oh  yes,  do  show  me,  Mr. 
Page  ! '  "  Following  this  moody  reflection  she  immediately 
jumped  up  and  said  enthusiastically,  "  Oh  yes,  do  show 
me,  Mr.  Page !  "  The  brilliance  in  her  eyes  during  these 
weeks  came  partly  from  a  relieved  sense  of  escape  from 
a  humiliating  position,  and  partly  from  an  amusement  at 
the  quality  of  human  nature  which  was  as  dubiously  enjoy- 
able as  the  grim  amusement  of  biting  on  a  sore  tooth. 

322 


A  Hypothetical  Livelihood  323 

She  now  took  her  place  by  the  side  of  their  host,  and 
thought,  looking  at  his  outdoor  aspect,  that  her  guess  at 
what  to  wear  had  been  better  than  Aunt  Victoria's  or 
Molly's.  For  the  question  of  what  to  wear  had  been  a 
burning  one.  Pressure  had  been  put  on  her  to  don  just  a 
lacy,  garden-party  toilette  of  lawn  and  net  as  now  auto- 
matically barred  both  Aunt  Victoria  and  Molly  from  the 
proposed  expedition  to  the  woods.  Nobody  had  had  the 
least  idea  what  was  to  be  the  color  of  the  entertainment 
offered  them,  for  the  great  significance  of  the  affair  was 
that  it  was  the  first  time  that  Page  had  ever  invited  any 
one  to  the  spot  for  which  he  evidently  felt  such  an  un- 
accountable affection.  Aunt  Victoria  had  explained  to 
Sylvia,  "  It's  always  at  the  big  Page  estate  in  Lenox  that 
he  entertains,  or  rather  that  he  gets  his  mother  to  do 
the  absolutely  indispensable  entertaining  for  him."  Mor- 
rison said  laughingly :  "  Isn't  it  the  very  quintessence  of 
quaintness  to  visit  him  there!  To  watch  his  detached, 
whimsical  air  of  not  being  in  the  least  a  part  of  all  the 
magnificence  which  bears  his  name.  He  insists,  you 
know,  that  he  doesn't  begin  to  know  his  way  around 
that  huge  house ! "  "  It  was  his  father  who  built  the 
Lenox  place,"  commented  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith.  "  It 
suited  his  taste  to  perfection.  Austin  seems  to  have  a 
sort  of  Marie-Antoinette  reaction  towards  a  somewhat 
painfully  achieved  simplicity.  He's  not  the  man  to  take  any 
sort  of  pose.  If  he  were,  it  would  be  impossible  not  to  sus- 
pect him  of  a  little  pose  in  his  fondness  for  going  back  to 
his  farmer  great-grandfather's  setting."  Guided  by  this 
conversation,  and  by  shrewd  observations  of  her  own, 
Sylvia  had  insisted,  even  to  the  point  of  strenuousness, 
upon  wearing  to  this  first  housewarming  a  cloth  skirt  and 
coat,  tempering  the  severity  of  this  costume  with  a  suffi- 
ciently feminine  and  beruffied  blouse  of  silk.  As  their  car 
had  swung  up  before  the  plain,  square,  big-chimneyed  old 
house,  and  Page  had  come  to  meet  them,  dressed  in  khaki- 
colored  forester's  garb,  with  puttees,  Aunt  Victoria  had 
been  generous  enough  to  admit  by  an  eye-flash  to  Sylvia 


324  The  Bent  Twig 

that  the  girl  knew  her  business  very  well.  There  was  not, 
of  course,  Sylvia  reflected,  the  slightest  pretense  of  obscur- 
ity between  them  as  to  what,  under  the  circumstances,  her 
business  was. 

All  this  lay  back  of  the  fact  that,  as  Sylvia,  her  face 
bright  with  spontaneous  interest  in  pine  plantations  and 
lumbering  operations,  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  man  in 
puttees,  her  costume  exactly  suited  his  own. 

From  the  midst  of  a  daring  and  extremely  becoming 
arrangement  of  black  and  white  striped  chiffon  and  emerald- 
green  velvet,  Molly's  beautiful  face  smiled  on  them  ap- 
provingly. For  various  reasons,  the  spectacle  afforded  her 
as  much  pleasure  as  it  did  extreme  discomfort  to  her 
grandfather,  and  with  her  usual  masterful  grasp  on  a  situa- 
tion she  began  to  arrange  matters  so  that  the  investigation 
of  pine  plantations  and  lumber  operations  should  be  con- 
ducted en  tete-a-tete.  "  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  you're  going 
to  stay  here,  of  course,  to  look  at  Austin's  lovely  view! 
Think  of  his  having  hidden  that  view  away  from  us  all  till 
now !  I  want  to  go  through  the  house  later  on,  and  without 
Austin,  so  I  can  linger  and  pry  if  I  like !  I  want  to  look 
at  every  single  thing.  It's  lovely — the  completest  Yankee 
setting!  It  looks  as  though  we  all  ought  to  have  on  clean 
gingham  aprons  and  wear  steel-rimmed  spectacles.  No, 
Austin,  don't  frown !  I  don't  mean  that  for  a  knock.  I 
love  it,  honestly  I  do!  I  always  thought  I'd  like  to  wear 
clean  gingham  aprons  myself.  The  only  things  that  are 
out  of  keeping  are  those  shelves  and  shelves  and  shelves  of 
solemn  books  with  such  terrible  titles ! " 

"  That's  a  fact,  Page,"  said  Morrison,  laughing.  "  Molly's 
hit  the  nail  squarely.  Your  modern,  economic  spasms  over 
the  organization  of  industrialism  are  out  of  place  in  that 
delightful,  eighteenth  century,  plain  old  interior.  They 
threw  their  fits  over  theology !  " 

The  owner  of  the  house  nodded.  "  Yes,  you  know  your 
period!  A  great-great-grandfather  of  mine,  a  ministerial 
person,  had  left  a  lot  of  books  on  the  nature  of  the  Trinity 
and  Free  Will  and  such.    They  had  to  be  moved  up  to  the 


A  Hypothetical  Livelihood  325 

attic  to  make  room  for  mine.  What  books  will  be  on  those 
shelves  a  hundred  years  from  now,  I  wonder?" 

"  Treatises  on  psychic  analysis,  on  how  to  transfer 
thought  without  words,  unless  I  read  the  signs  of  the  times 
wrong,"  Morrison  hazarded  a  guess. 

Molly  was  bored  by  this  talk  and  anxious  to  get  the  walk- 
ers off.  "  You'd  better  be  starting  if  you're  going  far  up 
on  the  mountain,  Austin.  We  have  to  be  back  for  a  tea 
at  Mrs.  Neville's,  where  Sylvia's  to  pour.  Mrs.  Neville 
would  have  a  thing  or  two  to  say  to  us,  if  we  made  her 
lose  her  main  drawing  card." 

"  Are  you  coming,  Morrison  ?  "  asked  Page. 

"  No,  he  isn't,"  said  Molly  decidedly.  "  He's  going  to 
stay  to  play  to  me  on  that  delicious  tin-panny  old  harpsi- 
chordy  thing  in  your  '  best  room.'  You  do  call  it  the 
'  best  room/  don't  you  ?  They  always  do  in  New  England 
dialect  stories.  Grandfather,  you  have  your  cards  with 
you,  haven't  you?  You  always  have.  If  you'll  get  them 
out,  Felix  and  Arnold  and  I'll  play  whist  with  you." 

Only  one  of  those  thus  laid  hold  of,  slipped  out  from  her 
strong  little  fingers.  Arnold  raised  himself,  joint  by  joint, 
from  his  chair,  and  announced  that  he  was  a  perfect  nut- 
head  when  it  came  to  whist.  "  And,  anyhow,"  he  went  on 
insistently,  raising  his  voice  as  Molly  began  to  order  him 
back  into  the  ranks — "  And,  anyhow,  I  don't  want  to  play 
whist !  And  I  do  want  to  see  what  Page  has  been  up  to  all 
this  time  he's  kept  so  dark  about  his  goings-on  over  here. 
No,  Molly,  you  needn't  waste  any  more  perfectly  good  lan- 
guage on  me.  You  can  boss  everybody  else  if  you  like, 
but  I'm  the  original,  hairy  wild-man  who  gets  what  he 
wants." 

He  strolled  off  across  the  old-fashioned  garden  and  out 
of  the  gate  with  the  other  two,  his  attention  given  as  usual 
to  lighting  a  cigarette.  It  was  an  undertaking  of  some  diffi- 
culty on  that  day  of  stiff  September  wind  which  blew  Syl- 
via's hair  about  her  ears  in  bright,  dancing  flutters. 

They  were  no  more  than  out  of  earshot  of  the  group 
left  on  the  porch,  than  Sylvia,  as  so  often  happened  in  her 


326  The  Bent  Twig 

growing  acquaintanceship  with  Page,  found  herself  obliged 
entirely  to  reconstruct  an  impression  of  him.  It  was  with 
anything  but  a  rich  man's  arrogant  certainty  of  her  interest 
that  he  said,  very  simply  as  he  said  everything :  "  I  appre- 
ciate very  much,  Miss  Marshall,  your  being  willing  to  come 
along  and  see  all  this.  It's  a  part  of  your  general  kindness 
to  everybody.  I  hope  it  won't  bore  you  to  extremity.  I'm 
so  heart  and  soul  in  it  myself,  I  shan't  know  when  to  stop 
talking  about  it.  In  fact  I  shan't  want  to  stop,  even  if  I 
know  I  should.  I've  never  said  much  about  it  to  any  one 
before,  and  I  very  much  want  your  opinion  on  it." 

Sylvia  felt  a  decent  pinch  of  shame,  and  her  eyes  were 
not  brilliant  with  sardonic  irony  but  rather  dimmed  with 
self-distrust  as  she  answered  with  a  wholesome  effort  for 
honesty :  "  I  really  don't  know  a  single  thing  about  forestry, 
Mr.  Page.  You'll  have  to  start  in  at  the  very  beginning, 
and  explain  everything.  I  hope  I've  sense  enough  to  take 
an  intelligent  interest."  Very  different,  this,  from  the 
meretricious  sparkle  of  her,  "  Oh  yes,  do  show  me,  Mr. 
Page."  She  felt  that  to  be  rather  cheap,  as  she  remem- 
bered it.  She  wondered  if  he  had  seen  its  significance,  had 
seen  through  her.  From  a  three  weeks'  intensive  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  she  rather  thought  he  had.  His  eyes 
were  clear,  formidably  so.   He  put  her  on  her  mettle. 

Arnold  had  lighted  his  cigarette  by  this  time,  offered  one 
to  Page  with  his  incurable  incapacity  to  remember  that  not 
every  sane  man  smokes,  and  on  being  refused,  put  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets.  The  three  tall  young  people 
were  making  short  work  of  the  stretch  of  sunny,  windy, 
upland  pasture,  and  were  already  almost  in  the  edge  of 
the  woods  which  covered  the  slope  of  the  mountain  above 
them  up  to  the  very  crest,  jewel-green  against  the  great, 
piled,  cumulus  clouds. 

"  Well,  I  will  begin  at  the  beginning,  then,"  said  Page. 
"  I'll  begin  back  in  1762,  when  this  valley  was  settled  and 
my  ever-so-many-greats-grandfather  took  possession  of  a 
big  slice  of  this  side  of  Hemlock  Mountain,  with  the  sole 
idea  that  trees  were  men's  enemies.     The  American  colo- 


A  Hypothetical  Livelihood  327 

nists  thought  of  forests,  you  know,  as  places  for  Indians 
to  lurk,  spots  that  couldn't  be  used  for  corn,  growths  to 
be  exterminated  as  fast  as  possible." 

They  entered  the  woods  now,  walking  at  a  good  pace  up 
the  steeply  rising,  grass-grown  wood-road.  Sylvia  quite 
consciously  summoned  all  her  powers  of  attention  and  con- 
centration for  the  hour  before  her,  determined  to  make  a 
good  impression  to  counteract  whatever  too  great  insight 
her  host  might  have  shown  in  the  matter  of  her  first  in- 
terest. She  bent  her  fine  brows  with  the  attention  she 
had  so  often  summoned  to  face  a  difficult  final  examina- 
tion, to  read  at  the  correct  tempo  a  complicated  piece  of 
music,  to  grasp  the  essentials  of  a  new  subject.  Her 
trained  interest  in  understanding  things,  which  of  late  had 
been  feeding  on  rather  moldy  scraps  of  cynical  psychology, 
seized  with  energy  and  delight  on  a  change  of  diet.  She 
not  only  tried  to  be  interested.  Very  shortly  she  was  in- 
terested, absorbed,  intent.  What  Page  had  to  say  fas- 
cinated her.  She  even  forgot  who  he  was,  and  that  he  was 
immensely  rich.  Though  this  forgetfulness  was  only  mo- 
mentary it  was  an  unspeakable  relief  and  refreshment  to 
her. 

She  listened  intently;  at  times  she  asked  a  pertinent 
question;  as  she  walked  she  gave  the  man  an  occasional 
direct  survey,  as  impersonal  as  though  he  were  a  book 
from  which  she  was  reading.  And  exactly  as  an  intelli- 
gent reader,  in  a  first  perusal  of  a  new  subject,  snatches 
the  heart  out  of  paragraph  after  paragraph,  ignoring  the 
details  until  later,  she  took  to  herself  only  the  gist  of  her 
host's  recital.  Yes,  yes,  she  saw  perfectly  the  generations 
of  Vermont  farmers  who  had  hated  trees  because  they 
meant  the  wilderness,  and  whose  destruction  of  forests  was 
only  limited  by  the  puniness  of  the  forces  they  matched 
against  the  great  wooded  slopes  of  the  mountains  they 
pre-empted.  And  she  saw  later,  the  long  years  of  utter 
neglect  of  those  hacked-at  and  half-destroyed  forests  while 
Page's  grandfather  and  father  descended  on  the  city  and  on. 
financial  operations  with  the  fierce,  fresh  energy  of  fron- 


328  The  Bent  Twig 

tiersmen.  She  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  those  ruthless 
victors  of  Wall  Street  had  not  sold  the  hundreds  of  worth- 
less acres,  which  they  never  took  the  trouble  to  visit;  and 
by  the  still  more  significant  fact  that  as  the  older  ones  of 
the  family  died,  the  Austins,  the  Pages,  the  Woolsons,  the 
Hawkers,  and  as  legacy  after  legacy  of  more  worthless 
mountain  acres  came  by  inheritance  to  the  financiers,  those 
tracts  too  were  never  sold.  They  never  thought  of  them, 
Page  told  her,  except  grumblingly  to  pay  the  taxes  on 
them;  they  considered  them  of  ridiculously  minute  pro- 
portions compared  to  their  own  titanic  manipulations,  but 
they  had  never  sold  them.  Sylvia  saw  them  vividly,  those 
self-made  exiles  from  the  mountains,  and  felt  in  them  some 
unacknowledged  loyalty  to  the  soil,  the  barren  soil  which 
had  borne  them,  some  inarticulate  affection  which  had  lived 
through  the  heat  and  rage  of  their  embattled  lives.  The 
taproot  had  been  too  deep  for  them  to  break  off,  and  now 
from  it  there  was  springing  up  this  unexpected  stem,  this 
sole  survivor  of  their  race  who  turned  away  from  what 
had  been  the  flaming  breath  of  life  in  their  brazen  nostrils, 
back  to  the  green  fragrance  of  their  mutilated  and  forgotten 
forests. 

Not  the  least  of  the  charm  of  this  conception  for  Sylvia 
came  from  the  fact  that  she  quarried  it  out  for  herself 
from  the  bare  narration  presented  to  her,  that  she  read  it 
not  at  all  in  the  words,  but  in  the  voice,  the  face,  the 
manner  of  the  raconteur.  She  was  amused,  she  was 
touched,  she  was  impressed  by  his  studiously  matter-of- 
fact  version  of  his  enterprise.  He  put  forward  with  the 
shy,  prudish  shamefacedness  of  the  New  Englander  the 
sound  financial  basis  of  his  undertaking,  as  its  main  claim 
on  his  interest,  as  its  main  value.  "  I  heard  so  much  about 
forestry  being  nothing  but  a  rich  man's  plaything,"  he  said. 
"  I  just  got  my  back  up,  and  wanted  to  see  if  it  couldn't  be 
made  a  paying  thing.  And  I've  proved  it  can  be.  I've  had 
the  closest  account  kept  of  income  and  outgo,  and  so  far 
from  being  a  drain  on  a  man  to  reforest  his  woodland  and 
administer  it  as  he  should,  there's  an  actual  profit  in  it, 


A  Hypothetical  Livelihood  329 

enough  to  make  a  business  of  it,  enough  to  occupy  a  man 
for  his  lifetime  and  his  son  after  him,  if  he  gives  it  his 
personal  care." 

At  this  plain  statement  of  a  comprehensible  fact,  Ar- 
nold's inattention  gave  place  to  a  momentary  interest.  "  Is 
there  ?  "  he  asked  with  surprise.     "  How  much  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Page,  "  my  system,  as  I've  gradually  worked 
it  out,  is  to  clear  off  a  certain  amount  each  year  of  our 
mediocre  woodland,  such  as  for  the  most  part  grows  up 
where  the  bad  cutting  was  done  a  couple  of  generations 
ago — maple  and  oak  and  beech  it  is,  mostly,  with  little 
stands  of  white  birch,  where  fires  have  been.  I  work  that 
up  in  my  own  sawmill  so  as  to  sell  as  little  of  a  raw  product 
as  possible;  and  dispose  of  it  to  the  wood-working  fac- 
tories in  the  region."  (Sylvia  remembered  the  great 
*  brush-back  factory "  whence  Molly  had  recruited  her 
fire-fighters.)  "  Then  I  replant  that  area  to  white  pine. 
That's  the  best  tree  for  this  valley.  I  put  about  a  thousand 
trees  to  the  acre.  Or  if  there  seems  to  be  a  good  prospect 
of  natural  reproduction,  I  try  for  that.  There's  a  region 
over  there,  about  a  hundred  acres,"  he  waved  his  hand 
to  the  north  of  them,  "  that's  thick  with  seedling  ash.  I'm 
leaving  that  alone.  But  for  the  most  part,  white  pine's  our 
best  lay.  Pine  thrives  on  soil  that  stunts  oak  and  twists 
beech.  Our  oak  isn't  good  quality,  and  maple  is  such  an 
interminably  slow  grower.  In  about  twenty  years  from 
planting,  you  can  make  your  first,  box-board  cutting  of 
pine,  and  every  ten  years  thereafter -" 

Arnold  had  received  this  avalanche  of  figures  and  species 
with  an  astonished  blink,  and  now  protested  energetically 
that  he  had  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  precipitating 
any  such  flood.  "  Great  Scott,  Page,  catch  your  breath ! 
If  you're  talking  to  me,  you'll  have  to  use  English,  anyhow. 
I've  no  more  idea  what  you're  talking  about!  Who  do 
you  take  me  for?  /  don't  know  an  ash-tree  from  an  ash- 
cart.  You  started  in  to  tell  me  what  the  profit  of  the  thing 
is." 

Page  looked  pained  but  patient,  like  a  reasonable  man 


330  The  Bent  Twig 

who  knows  his  hobby  is  running  away  with  him,  but  who 
cannot  bring  himself  to  use  the  curb.  "  Oh  yes,"  he  said 
apologetically.  "  Why,  we  cleared  last  year  (exclusive  of 
the  farm,  which  yields  a  fair  profit) — we  cleared  about  two 
thousand  dollars."  Arnold  seemed  to  regard  this  state- 
ment as  quite  the  most  ridiculous  mouse  which  ever  issued 
from  a  mountain.  He  burst  into  an  open  laugh.  "  Almost 
enough  to  buy  you  a  new  car  a  year,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  com- 
mented. 

Page  looked  extremely  nettled.  An  annoyed  flush  showed 
through  the  tan  of  his  clear  skin.  He  was  evidently  very 
touchy  about  his  pet  lumbering  operations.  "  A  great  many 
American  families  consider  that  a  sufficient  income,"  he 
said  stiffly. 

Sylvia  had  another  inspiration,  such  as  had  been  the 
genesis  of  her  present  walking-costume.  "  You're  too  silly, 
Arnold.  The  important  thing  isn't  what  the  proportion 
with  Mr.  Page's  own  income  is!  What  he  was  trying  to 
do,  and  what  he  has  done,  only  you  don't  know  enough  to 
see  it,  is  to  prove  that  sane  forestry  is  possible  for  forest- 
owners  of  small  means.  I  know,  if  you  don't,  that  two 
thousand  is  plenty  to  live  on.  My  father's  salary  is  only 
twenty-four  hundred  now,  and  we  were  all  brought  up 
when  it  was  two  thousand." 

She  had  had  an  intuitive  certainty  that  this  frank  revela- 
tion would  please  Page,  and  she  was  rewarded  by  an 
openly  ardent  flash  from  his  clear  eyes.  There  was  in  his 
look  at  her  an  element  of  enchanted,  relieved  recognition, 
as  though  he  had  nodded  and  said :  "  Oh,  you  are  my  kind 
of  a  woman  after  all !    I  was  right  about  you." 

Arnold  showed  by  a  lifted  eyebrow  that  he  was  con- 
scious of  being  put  down,  but  he  survived  the  process  with 
his  usual  negligent  obliviousness  of  reproof.  "  Well,  if 
two  thousand  a  year  produced  Judith,  go  ahead,  Page,  and 
my  blessing  on  you ! "  He  added  in  a  half-apology  for 
his  offensive  laughter,  "  It  just  tickled  me  to  hear  a  man 
who  owns  most  of  several  counties  of  coal-mines  so  set 
up  over  finding  a  nickel  on  the  street ! " 


A  Hypothetical  Livelihood  331 

Page  had  regained  his  geniality.  "  Well,  Smith,  maybe  I 
needn't  have  jumped  so  when  you  stepped  on  my  toe.  But 
it's  my  pet  toe,  you  see.  You're  quite  right — I'm  ever- 
lastingly set  up  over  my  nickel.  But  it's  not  because  I 
found  it.  It's  because  I  earned  it.  It  happens  to  be  the 
only  nickel  I  ever  earned.  It's  natural  I  should  want  it 
treated  with  respect." 

Arnold  did  not  trouble  to  make  any  sense  out  of  this 
remark,  and  Sylvia  was  thinking  bitterly  to  herself :  "  But 
that's  pure  bluff!  I'm  not  his  kind  of  a  woman.  I'm 
Felix  Morrison's  kind ! "  No  comment,  therefore,  was 
made  on  the  quaintness  of  the  rich  man's  interest  in  earn- 
ing capacity. 

They  were  now  in  one  of  the  recent  pine  plantations, 
treading  a  wood-road  open  to  the  sky,  running  between 
acres  and  acres  of  thrifty  young  pines.  Page's  eyes  glist- 
ened with  affection  as  he  looked  at  them,  and  with  the  un- 
wearied zest  of  the  enthusiast  he  continued  expanding  on 
his  theme.  Sylvia  knew  the  main  outline  of  her  new 
subject  now,  felt  that  she  had  walked  all  around  it,  and  was 
agreeably  surprised  at  her  sympathy  with  it.  She  con- 
tinued with  a  genuine  curiosity  to  extract  more  details; 
and  like  any  man  who  talks  of  a  process  which  he  knows 
thoroughly,  Page  was  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  a  sympathetic 
listener.  His  tongue  tripped  itself  in  his  readiness  to  an- 
swer, to  expound,  to  tell  his  experiences,  to  pour  out  a 
confidently  accurate  and  precise  flood  of  information.  Syl- 
via began  to  take  a  playful  interest  in  trying  to  find  a  weak 
place  in  his  armor,  to  ask  a  question  he  could  not  answer. 
But  he  knew  all  the  answers.  He  knew  the  relative  weight 
per  cubic  foot  of  oak  and  pine  and  maple;  he  knew  the 
railroad  rates  per  ton  on  carload  lots ;  he  knew  why  it  is 
cheaper  in  the  long  run  to  set  transplants  in  sod-land 
instead  of  seeding  it;  he  knew  what  per  cent  to  write  off 
for  damage  done  by  the  pine  weevil,  he  reveled  in  compli- 
cated statistics  as  to  the  actual  cost  per  thousand  for  chop- 
ping, skidding,  drawing,  sawing  logs.  He  laughed  at 
Sylvia's  attempts  to  best  him,  and  in  return  beat  about  her 


332  The  Bent  Twig 

ears  with  statistics  for  timber  cruising,  explained  the  varia- 
tions of  the  Vermont  and  the  scribner's  decimal  log  rule, 
and  recited  log-scaling  tables  as  fluently  as  the  multiplica- 
tion table.  They  were  in  the  midst  of  this  lively  give-and- 
take,  listened  to  with  a  mild  amusement  on  Arnold's  part, 
when  they  emerged  on  a  look-out  ledge  of  gray  slate,  and 
were  struck  into  silence  by  the  grave  loveliness  of  the  im- 
mense prospect  below  them. 

" — and  of  course,"  murmured  Page  finally,  on  another 
note,  "  of  course  it's  rather  a  satisfaction  to  feel  that  you 
are  making  waste  land  of  use  to  the  world,  and  helping  to 

protect  the  living  waters  of  all  that "     He  waved  his 

hand  over  the  noble  expanse  of  sunlit  valley.  M  It 
seems " — he  drew  a  long  breath — "  it  seems  something 
quite  worth  doing." 

Sylvia  was  moved  to  a  disinterested  admiration  for  him;, 
and  it  was  a  not  unworthy  motive  which  kept  her  from 
looking  up  to  meet  his  eyes  on  her.  She  felt  a  petulant  dis- 
taste for  the  calculating  speculations  which  filled  the  minds 
of  all  her  world  about  his  intentions  towards  her.  He  was 
really  too  fine  for  that.  At  least,  she  owed  it  to  her  own 
dignity  not  to  abuse  this  moment  of  fine,  impersonal  emo- 
tion to  advance  another  step  into  intimacy  with  him. 

But  as  she  stood,  looking  fixedly  down  at  the  valley,  she 
was  quite  aware  that  a  sympathetic  silence  and  a  thought- 
ful pose  might  make,  on  the  whole,  an  impression  quite  as 
favorable  as  the  most  successfully  managed  meeting  of 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

ARNOLD  CONTINUES  TO  DODGE  THE 
RENAISSANCE 

A  gaunt  roaming  figure  of  ennui  and  restlessness,  Ar- 
nold appeared  at  the  door  of  the  pergola  and  with  a  petu- 
lant movement  tore  a  brilliant  autumn  leaf  to  pieces  as 
he  lingered  for  a  moment,  listening  moodily  to  the  talk 
within.  He  refused  with  a  grimace  the  chair  to  which 
Sylvia  motioned  him.  "  Lord,  no !  Hear  'em  go  it !  "  he 
said  quite  audibly  and  turned  away  to  lounge  back  towards 
the  house.  Sylvia  had  had  time  to  notice,  somewhat 
absently,  that  he  looked  ill,  as  though  he  had  a  head- 
ache. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  glanced  after  him  with  misgiving, 
and,  under  cover  of  a  brilliantly  resounding  passage  at 
arms  between  Morrison  and  Page,  murmured  anxiously  to 
Sylvia,  "  I  wish  Judith  would  give  up  her  nonsense  and 
marry  Arnold ! " 

"  Oh,  they've  only  been  engaged  a  couple  of  months," 
said  Sylvia.  "What's  the  hurry!  She'll  get  her  diploma 
in  January.    It'd  be  a  pity  to  have  her  miss !  " 

Arnold's  stepmother  broke  in  rather  impatiently,  "  If  I 
were  a  girl  engaged  to  Arnold,  I'd  marry  him !  " 

" — the  trouble  with  all  you  connoisseurs,  Morrison,  is 
that  you're  barking  up  the  wrong  tree.  You  take  for 
granted,  from  your  own  tastes,  when  people  begin  to  buy 
jade  Buddhas  and  Zuloaga  bull-fighters  that  they're  want- 
ing to  surround  themselves  with  beauty.  Not  much!  It's 
the  consciousness  of  money  they  want  to  surround  them- 
selves with !  " 

Morrison  conceded  part  of  this.  "  Oh,  I  grant  you,  there's 
a   disheartening   deal    of   imitation   in    this   matter.      But 

3AS 


334  The  Bent  Twig 

America's  new  to  aesthetics.  Don't  despise  beginnings  be- 
cause they're  small !  " 

"A  nettle  leaf  is  small.  But  that's  not  the  reason  why- 
it  won't  ever  grow  into  an  oak.  Look  here!  A  sheaf  of 
winter  grasses,  rightly  arranged  in  clear  glass,  has  as  much 
of  the  essence  of  beauty  as  a  bronze  vase  of  the  Ming 
dynasty.  I  ask  you  just  one  question,  How  many  people  do 
you  know  who  are  capable  of " 

The  art-critic  broke  in :  "  Oh  come !  You're  setting  up 
an  impossibly  high  standard  of  aesthetic  feeling." 

"  I'm  not  presuming  to  do  any  such  thing  as  setting  up 
a  standard!  I'm  just  insisting  that  people  who  can't  ex- 
tract joy  from  the  shadow  pattern  of  a  leafy  branch  on  a 
gray  wall,  are  liars  if  they  claim  to  enjoy  a  fine  Japanese 
print.  What  they  enjoy  in  the  print  is  the  sense  that  they've 
paid  a  lot  for  it.  In  my  opinion,  there's  no  use  trying  to 
advance  a  step  towards  any  sound  aesthetic  feeling  till 
some  step  is  taken  away  from  the  idea  of  cost  as  the  cri- 
terion of  value  about  anything."  He  drew  a  long  breath 
and  went  on,  rather  more  rapidly  than  was  his  usual  habit 
of  speech :  "  I've  a  real  conviction  on  that  point.  It's  come 
to  me  of  late  years  that  one  reason  we  haven't  any  national 
art  is  because  we  have  too  much  magnificence.  All  our 
capacity  for  admiration  is  used  up  on  the  splendor  of  palace- 
like railway  stations  and  hotels.  Our  national  tympanum 
is  so  deafened  by  that  blare  of  sumptuousness  that  we  have 
no  ears  for  the  still,  small  voice  of  beauty.  And  perhaps," 
he  paused,  looking  down  absently  at  a  crumb  he  rolled  be- 
tween his  thumb  and  finger  on  the  table,  "  it's  possible  that 
the  time  is  ripening  for  a  wider  appreciation  of  another 
kind  of  beauty  .  .  .  that  has  little  to  do  even  with  such 
miracles  as  the  shadow  of  a  branch  on  a  wall." 

Morrison  showed  no  interest  in  this  vaguely  phrased 
hypothesis,  and  returned  to  an  earlier  contention :  "  You 
underestimate,"  he  said,  "  the  amount  of  education  and  taste 
and  time  it  takes  to  arrange  that  simple-looking  vase  of 
grasses,  to  appreciate  your  leaf-shadows." 

"  All  I'm  saying  is  that  your  campaign  of  aesthetic  edu- 


Arnold  Continues  to  Dodge  the  Renaissance    335 

cation  hasn't  made  the  matter  vital  enough  to  people,  to  any 
people,  not  even  to  people  who  call  themselves  vastly- 
aesthetic,  so  that  they  give  time  and  effort  and  self-school- 
ing to  the  acquisition  of  beauty.  They  not  only  want  their 
money  to  do  their  dirty  work  for  them,  they  try  to  make 
it  do  their  fine  living  for  them  too,  with  a  minimum  of 
effort  on  their  part.  They  want  to  buy  beauty,  outright, 
with  cash,  and  have  it  stay  put,  where  they  can  get  their 
fingers  on  it  at  any  time,  without  bothering  about  it  in  the 
meantime.  That's  the  way  a  Turk  likes  his  women — same 
impulse  exactly." 

"  I've  known  a  few  Caucasians  too  .  .  .,"  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall-Smith contributed  a  barbed  point  of  malice  to  the 
talk. 

Page  laughed,  appreciating  her  hit.  "  Oh,  I  mean  Turk 
as  a  generic  term."  Sylvia,  circling  warily  about  the  con- 
testants, looking  for  a  chance  to  make  her  presence  felt, 
without  impairing  the  masculine  gusto  with  which  they 
were  monopolizing  the  center  of  the  stage,  tossed  in  a  sug- 
gestion, "  Was  it  Hawthorne's — it's  a  queer  fancy  like 
Hawthorne's — the  idea  of  the  miser,  don't  you  remember, 
whose  joy  was  to  roll  naked  in  his  gold  pieces?" 

Page  snatched  up  with  a  delighted  laugh  the  metaphor 
she  had  laid  in  his  hand.  "  Capital !  Precisely !  There's 
the  thing  in  a  nutshell.  We  twentieth  century  Midases 
have  got  beyond  the  simple  taste  of  that  founder  of  the 
family  for  the  shining  yellow  qualities  of  money,  but  we  love 
to  wallow  in  it  none  the  less.  We  like  to  put  our  feet 
on  it,  in  the  shape  of  rugs  valued  according  to  their  cost, 
we  like  to  eat  it  in  insipid,  out-of-season  fruit  and  vege- 
tables." 

"  Doesn't  it  occur  to  you,"  broke  in  Morrison,  "  that 
you  may  be  attacking  something  that's  a  mere  phase,  an 
incident  of  transition  ?  " 

"  Is  anything  ever  anything  else ! "  Page  broke  in  to  say. 

Morrison  continued,  with  a  slight  frown  at  the  interrup- 
tion, "  America  is  simply  emerging  from  the  frontier  con- 
dition of  bareness,  and  it  is  only  natural  that  one,  or  per- 


336  The  Bent  Twig 

haps  two  generations  must  be  sacrificed  in  order  to  attain 
a  smooth  mastery  of  an  existence  charged  and  enriched 
with  possession."  He  gave  the  effect  of  quoting  a  para- 
graph from  one  of  his  lectures. 

"  Isn't  the  end  of  that  '  transition/ "  inquired  Page, 
usually  simply  that  after  one  or  two  generations  people 
grow  dulled  to  everything  but  possession  and  fancy  them- 
selves worthily  occupied  when  they  spend  their  lives  regu- 
lating and  caring  for  their  possessions.  I  hate,"  he  cried 
with  sudden  intensity,  "  I  hate  the  very  sound  of  the 
word ! " 

"  Does  you  great  credit,  I'm  sure,"  said  Morrison,  with  a 
faint  irony,  a  hidden  acrimony,  pricking,  for  an  instant,  an 
ugly  ear  through  his  genial  manner. 

Ever  since  the  day  of  the  fire,  since  Page  had  become  a 
more  and  more  frequent  visitor  in  Lydford  and  had  seen 
more  and  more  of  Sylvia,  she  had  derived  a  certain 
amount  of  decidedly  bad-tasting  amusement  from  the  fact 
of  Morrison's  animosity  to  the  other  man.  But  this  was 
going  too  far.  She  said  instantly,  "  Do  you  know,  I've  just 
thought  what  it  is  you  all  remind  me  of — I  mean  Lydford, 
and  the  beautiful  clothes,  and  nobody  bothering  about  any- 
thing but  tea  and  ideas  and  knowing  the  right  people.  I 
knew  it  made  me  think  of  something  else,  and  now  I  know — 
it's  a  Henry  James  novel !  " 

Page  took  up  her  lead  instantly,  and  said  gravely,  put- 
ting himself  beside  her  as  another  outsider :  "  Well,  of 
course,  that's  their  ideal.  That's  what  they  try  to  be  like 
— at  least  to  talk  like  James  people.  But  it's  not  always 
easy.     The  vocabulary  is  so  limited." 

"Limited!"  cried  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith.  "There  are 
more  words  in  a  Henry  James  novel  than  in  any  dic- 
tionary ! " 

"  Oh  yes,  words  enough !  "  admitted  Page,  "  but  all  about 
the  same  sort  of  thing.  It  reminds  me  of  the  seminarists 
in  Rome,  who  have  to  use  Latin  for  everything.  They  can 
manage  predestination  and  vicarious  atonement  like  a  shot, 
but  when  it  comes  to  ordering  somebody  to  call  them  for 


Arnold  Continues  to  Dodge  the  Renaissance    337 

the  six-twenty  train  to  Naples  they're  lost.  Now,  you 
can  talk  about  your  bric-a-brac  in  Henry- Jamesese,  you 
can  take  away  your  neighbor's  reputation  by  subtle  sugges- 
tion, you  can  appreciate  a  fine  deed  of  self-abnegation,  if  it's 
not  too  definite!  I  suppose  a  man  could  even  make  an 
attenuated  sort  of  love  in  the  lingo,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  I 
see  how  anybody  could  order  a  loaf  of  bread." 

"  One  might  do  without  bread,  possibly  ? "  suggested 
Morrison,  pressing  the  tips  of  his  beautiful  fingers  to- 
gether. 

"  By  Jove,"  cried  Page,  in  hearty  assent,  "  I've  a  notion 
that  lots  of  times  they  do !  " 

This  was  getting  nowhere.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  put 
her  hand  to  the  helm,  and  addressed  herself  to  Morrison 
with  a  plain  reminder  of  the  reason  for  the  grotesqueness  of 
his  irritability.  "  Where's  Molly  keeping  herself  nowa- 
days ?  "  she  inquired.  "  She  hasn't  come  over  with  you,  to 
tea,  for  ever  so  long.  The  pergola  isn't  itself  without  her 
sunny  head." 

"  Molly  is  a  grain  of  sand  in  a  hurricane,  nowadays," 
said  Morrison  seriously.  "  It  seems  that  the  exigencies  of 
divine  convention  decree  that  a  girl  who  is  soon  to  be 
married  belongs  neither  to  herself,  to  her  family,  to  her 
fiance — oh,  least  of  all  to  her  fiance — but  heart  and  soul  and 
body  to  a  devouring  horde  of  dressmakers  and  tailors  and 
milliners  and  hairdressers  and  corsetieres  and  petticoat 
specialists  and  jewelers  and  hosiery  experts  and " 

They  were  all  laughing  at  the  interminable  defile  of  words 
proceeding  with  a  Spanish  gravity,  and  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  broke  in,  "  I  don't  hear  anything  about  house- 
furnishers." 

"  No,"  said  Morrison,  "  the  house-furnisher's  name  is 
F.  Morrison,  and  he  has  no  show  until  after  the  wedding." 

"  What  are  your  plans  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith. 

"  Nothing  very  definite  except  the  great  Date.  That's 
fixed  for  the  twenty-first." 

"  Oh,  so  soon  .  .  .  less  than  three  weeks  from  now ! " 

Morrison  affected  to  feel  a  note  of  disapproval  in  her 


338  The  Bent  Twig 

voice,  and  said  with  his  faint  smile,  "  You  can  hardly  blame 
me  for  not  wishing  to  delay." 

"  Oh,  no  blame! "  she  denied  his  inference.  "  After  all  it's 
over  a  month  since  the  engagement  was  announced,  and 
who  knows  how  much  longer  before  that  you  and  Molly 
knew  about  it.  No.  I'm  not  one  who  believes  in  long 
engagements.     The  shorter  the  better." 

Sylvia  saw  an  opportunity  to  emerge  with  an  appearance 
of  ease  from  a  silence  that  might  seem  ungracious.  It  was 
an  enforced  manceuver  with  which  the  past  weeks  had  made 
her  wearily  familiar.  "  Aunt  Victoria's  hitting  at  Arnold 
and  Judith  over  your  head,"  she  said  to  Morrison.  "  It's 
delicious,  the  way  Tantine  shows  herself,  for  all  her  veneer 
of  modernity,  entirely  nineteen  century  in  her  impatience 
of  Judith's  work.  Now  that  there's  a  chance  to  escape 
from  it  into  the  blessed  haven  of  idle  matrimony,  she  can't 
see  why  Judith  doesn't  give  up  her  lifetime  dream  and 
marry  Arnold  tomorrow." 

Somewhat  to  her  surprise,  her  attempt  at  playfulness  had 
no  notable  success.  The  intent  of  her  remarks  received 
from  her  aunt  and  Morrison  the  merest  formal  recognition 
of  a  hasty,  dim  smile,  and  with  one  accord  they  looked  at 
once  in  another  direction.  "And  after  the  wedding?" 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  inquired — "or  is  that  a  secret?" 

"  Oh  no,  when  one  belongs  to  Molly's  exalted  class  or  is 
about  to  be  elevated  into  it,  nothing  is  secret.  I'm  quite 
sure  that  the  society  editor  of  the  Herald  knows  far  better 
than  I  the  names  of  the  hotels  in  Jamaica  we're  to  fre- 
quent." 

"  Oh !  Jamaica !  How  .  .  .  how  .  .  .  original !  "  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith  cast  about  her  rather  desperately  for  a 
commendatory  adjective. 

*  Yes,  quite  so,  isn't  it  ?  "  agreed  Morrison.  "  It's  Molly's 
idea.  She  is  original,  you  know.  It's  one  of  her  greatest 
charms.  She  didn't  want  to  go  to  Europe  because  there  is 
so  much  to  see  there,  to  do.  She  said  she  wanted  a  honey- 
moon and  not  a  personally  conducted  trip." 

They  all  laughed  again,  and  Sylvia  said :   "  How  like 


Arnold  Continues  to  Dodge  the  Renaissance    339 

Molly!  How  clever!  Nobody  does  her  thinking  for 
her!" 

"  The  roads  in  Jamaica  are  excellent  for  motoring,  too, 
I  hear/'  added  Morrison.  "  That's  another  reason,  of 
course." 

Page  gave  a  great  laugh.  "  Well,  as  Molly's  cousin,  let 
me  warn  you !  Molly  driving  a  car  in  Jamaica  will  be  like 
Pavlova  doing  a  bacchante  on  the  point  of  a  needle !  You'll 
have  to  keep  a  close  watch  on  her  to  see  that  she  doesn't 
absentmindedly  dash  across  the  island  and  jump  off  the 
bank  right  on  into  the  ocean." 

"  Where  does  F.  Morrison,  house-furnishing-expert,  come 
in  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith. 

"After  the  wedding,  after  Jamaica,"  said  Morrison. 
"  We're  to  come  back  to  New  York  and  for  a  few  months 
impose  on  the  good  nature  of  Molly's  grandfather's  house- 
hold, while  we  struggle  with  workmen  et  al.  The  Mont- 
gomery house  on  Fifth  Avenue,  that's  shut  up  for  so  many 
years, — ever  since  the  death  of  Molly's  parents, — is  the  one 
we've  settled  on.  It's  very  large,  you  know.  It  has  possi- 
bilities. I  have  a  plan  for  remodeling  it  and  enlarging  it 
with  a  large  inner  court,  glass-roofed — something  slightly 
Saracenic  about  the  arches — and  what  is  now  a  suite  of 
old-fashioned  parlors  on  the  north  side  is  to  be  made  into 
a  long  gallery.  There'll  be  an  excellent  light  for  paintings. 
I've  secured  from  Duveen  a  promise  for  some  tapestries  I've 
admired  for  a  long  time — Beauvais,  not  very  old,  Louis 
XVII — but  excellent  in  color.    Those  for  the  staircase  .  .  ." 

He  spoke  with  no  more  animation  than  was  his  custom, 
with  no  more  relish  than  was  seemly;  his  carefully  chosen 
words  succeeded  each  other  in  their  usual  exquisite  preci- 
sion, no  complacency  showed  above  the  surface ;  his  attitude 
was,  as  always,  composed  of  precisely  the  right  proportion 
of  dignity  and  ease ;  but  as  he  talked,  some  untarnished  in- 
stinct in  Sylvia  shrank  away  in  momentary  distaste,  the 
first  she  had  ever  felt  for  him. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  evidently  did  not  at  all  share  this 
feeling.    "  Oh,  what  a  house  that  will  be ! "  she  cried,  lost 


34-0  The  Bent  Twig 

in  forecasting  admiration.  "You!  with  a  free  hand!  A 
second  house  of  Jacques  Cceur!"  Sylvia  stood  up,  rather 
abruptly.  "  I  think  I'll  go  for  a  walk  beside  the  river,"  she 
said,  reaching  for  her  parasol. 

"May  I  tag  along?"  said  Page,  strolling  off  beside  her 
with  the  ease  of  familiarity. 

Sylvia  turned  to  wave  a  careless  farewell  to  the  two  thus 
left  somewhat  unceremoniously  in  the  pergola.  She  was 
in  brown  corduroy  with  suede  leather  sailor  collar  and  broad 
belt,  a  costume  which  brought  out  vividly  the  pure,  clear 
coloring  of  her  face.  "  Good-bye,"  she  called  to  them  with 
a  pointedly  casual  accent,  nodding  her  gleaming  head. 

"  She's  a  very  pretty  girl,  isn't  she  ? "  commented  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith.  Morrison,  looking  after  the  retreating 
figures,  agreed  with  her  briefly.  "  Yes,  very.  Extraordi- 
narily perfect  specimen  of  her  type."    His  tone  was  dry. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  looked  with  annoyance  across  the 
stretch  of  lawn  to  the  house.  "  I  think  I  would  better  go  to 
see  where  Arnold  is,"  she  said.  Her  tone  seemed  to  signify 
more  to  the  man  than  her  colorless  words.  He  frowned  and 
said,  "  Oh,  is  Arnold  .  .  .  ?  " 

She  gave  a  fatigued  gesture.  "  No — not  yet — but  for  the 
last  two  or  three  days  .  .  ." 

He  began  impatiently,  "  Why  can't  you  get  him  off  this 
time  before  he  .  .  ." 

"  An  excellent  idea,"  she  broke  in,  with  some  impatience 
of  her  own.    "  But  slightly  difficult  of  execution." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

SYLVIA  MEETS  WITH  PITY 

Under  the  scarlet  glory  of  frost-touched  maples,  beside 
the  river  strolled  Sylvia,  conscious  of  looking  very  well  and 
being  admired ;  but  contrary  to  the  age-old  belief  about  her 
sex  and  age,  the  sensation  of  looking  very  well  and  being 
admired  by  no  means  filled  the  entire  field  of  her  conscious- 
ness. In  fact,  the  corner  occupied  by  the  sensation  was  so 
small  that  occasional  efforts  on  her  part  to  escape  to  it  from 
the  less  agreeable  contents  of  her  mind  were  lamentable 
failures.  Aloud,  in  terms  as  felicitous  as  she  could  make 
them,  she  was  commenting  on  the  beauty  of  the  glass-smooth 
river,  with  the  sumptuously  colored  autumn  trees  casting 
down  into  it  the  imperial  gold  and  crimson  of  their  reflec- 
tions. Silently  she  was  struggling  to  master  and  dominate 
and  suppress  a  confusion  of  contradictory  mental  processes. 
At  almost  regular  intervals,  like  a  hollow  stroke  on  a  brazen 
gong,  her  brain  resounded  to  the  reverberations  of  "  The 
wedding  is  on  the  twenty-first."  And  each  time  that  she 
thrust  that  away,  there  sprang  up  with  a  faint  hissing  note 
of  doubt  and  suspicion,  "  Why  does  Aunt  Victoria  want 
Arnold  married  ?  "  A  murmur,  always  drowned  out  but  in- 
cessantly recurring,  ran:  "  What  about  Father  and  Mother? 
What  about  their  absurd,  impossible,  cruel,  unreal,  and 
beautiful  standards  ?  "  Contemptible  little  echoes  from  the 
silly  self-consciousness  of  the  adolescence  so  recently  left 
behind  her  ..."  I  must  think  of  something  clever  to  say. 
I  must  try  to  seem  different  and  original  and  independent 
and  yet  must  attract,"  mingled  with  an  occasional  fine  sin- 
cerity of  appreciation  and  respect  for  the  humanity  of  the 
man  beside  her.  Like  a  perfume  borne  in  gusts  came  re- 
action to  the  glorious  color  about  her.     Quickly  recurring 

341 


342  The  Bent  Twig 

and  quickly  gone,  a  sharp  cymbal-clap  of  alarm  .  .  . 
"  What  shall  I  do  if  Austin  Page  now  .  .  .  today  ...  or 
tomorrow  .  .  .  tells  me  .  .  .  !  "  And  grotesquely,  the  com- 
panion cymbal  on  which  this  smote,  gave  forth  an  antiph- 
onal  alarm  of,  "What  shall  I  do  if  he  does  not ! "  While, 
unheard  of  her  conscious  ear,  but  coloring  everything  with 
its  fundamental  note  of  sincerity,  rose  solemnly  from  the 
depths  of  her  heart  the  old  cry  of  desperate  youth,  "  What 
am  I  to  do  with  my  life  ?  " 

No,  the  eminently  successful  brown  corduroy,  present 
though  it  was  to  the  mind  of  the  handsome  girl  wearing  it, 
was  hardly  the  sure  and  sufficient  rock  of  refuge  which  tra- 
dition would  have  had  it. 

With  an  effort  she  turned  her  attention  from  this  con- 
fused tumult  in  her  ears,  and  put  out  her  hand,  rather  at 
random,  for  an  introduction  to  talk.  "  You  spoke,  back  there 
in  the  pergola,  of  another  kind  of  beauty — I  didn't  know 
what  you  meant."  He  answered  at  once,  with  his  usual 
direct  simplicity,  which  continued  to  have  for  Sylvia  at  this 
period  something  suspiciously  like  the  calmness  of  a  reign- 
ing sovereign  who  is  above  being  embarrassed,  who  may 
speak,  without  shamefacedness,  of  anything,  even  of  moral 
values,  that  subject  tabu  in  sophisticated  conversation. 
"  Ah,  just  a  notion  of  mine  that  perhaps  all  this  modern 
ferment  of  what's  known  as  *  social  conscience '  or  '  civic 
responsibility,'  isn't  a  result  of  the  sense  of  duty,  but  of  the 
old,  old  craving  for  beauty." 

Sylvia  looked  at  him,  astonished.     "Beauty?" 

"  Why  yes,  beauty  isn't  only  a  matter  of  line  and  color,  is 
it?  There's  the  desire  for  harmony,  for  true  proportions, 
for  grace  and  suavity,  for  nobility  of  movement.  Perhaps 
the  lack  of  those  qualities  is  felt  in  human  lives  as  much 
as  on  canvases  ...  at  least  perhaps  it  may  be  felt  in  the 
future." 

"  It's  an  interesting  idea,"  murmured  Sylvia,  "  but  I  don't 
quite  see  what  it  means,  concretely,  as  applied  to  our  actual 
America." 

He  meditated,  looking,  as  was  his  habit  when  walking,  up 


Sylvia  Meets  with  Pity  343 

at  the  trees  above  them.  "  Well,  let's  see.  I  think  I  mean 
that  perhaps  our  race,  not  especially  inspired  in  its  instinct 
for  color  and  external  form,  may  possibly  be  fumbling 
toward  an  art  of  living.  Why  wouldn't  it  be  an  art  to  keep 
your  life  in  drawing  as  well  as  a  mural  decoration?"  He 
broke  off  to  say,  laughing,  "  I  bet  you  the  technique  would 
be  quite  as  difficult  to  acquire,"  and  went  on  again,  thought- 
fully :  "  In  this  modern  maze  of  terrible  closeness  of  inter- 
relation, to  achieve  a  life  that's  happy  and  useful  and  causes 
no  undeserved  suffering  to  the  untold  numbers  of  other 
lives  wThich  touch  it — isn't  there  an  undertaking  which  needs 
the  passion  for  harmony  and  proportion?  Isn't  there  a 
beauty  as  a  possible  ideal  of  aspiration  for  a  race  that  prob- 
ably never  could  achieve  a  Florentine  or  Japanese  beauty 
of  line  ?  "  He  cast  this  out  casually,  as  an  idea  which  had 
by  chance  been  brought  up  to  the  top  by  the  current  of  the 
talk,  and  showed  no  indication  to  pursue  it  further  when 
Sylvia  only  nodded  her  head.  It  was  one  of  the  moments 
when  she  heard  nothing  but  the  brazen  clangor  of  "  the 
wedding  is  on  the  twenty-first,"  and  until  the  savage  con- 
striction around  her  heart  had  relaxed  she  had  not  breath 
to  speak.  But  that  passed  again,  and  the  two  sauntered 
onward,  in  the  peaceable  silence  which  was  one  of  the  great 
new  pleasures  which  Page  was  able  to  give  her.  It  now 
seemed  like  a  part  of  the  mellow  ripeness  of  the  day. 

They  had  come  to  a  bend  in  the  slowly  flowing  river, 
where,  instead  of  torch-bright  maples  and  poplars,  rank  upon 
rank  of  somber  pines  marched  away  to  the  summit  of  a 
steeply  ascending  foothill.  The  river  was  clouded  dark  with 
their  melancholy  reflections.  On  their  edge,  overhanging 
the  water,  stood  a  single  sumac,  a  standard-bearer  with  a 
thousand  little  down-drooping  flags  of  crimson. 

"  Oh,"  said  Sylvia,  smitten  with  admiration.  She  sat 
down  on  a  rock  partly  because  she  wanted  to  admire  at  her 
leisure,  partly  because  she  was  the  kind  of  a  girl  who  looks 
well  sitting  on  a  rock;  and  as  she  was  aware  of  this  latter 
motive,  she  felt  a  qualm  of  self-scorn.  What  a  cheap  vein 
of  commonness  was  revealed  in  her — in  every  one — by  the 


344  The  Bent  Twig 

temptation  of  a  great  fortune!  Morrison  had  succumbed 
entirely.  She  was  nowadays  continually  detecting  in  her- 
self motives  which  made  her  sick. 

Page  stretched  his  great  length  on  the  dry  leaves  at  her 
feet.  Any  other  man  would  have  rolled  a  cigarette.  It  was 
one  of  his  oddities  that  he  never  smoked.  Sylvia  looked 
down  at  his  thoughtful,  clean  face  and  reflected  wonder- 
ingly  that  he  seemed  the  only  person  not  warped  by  money. 
Was  it  because  he  had  it,  or  was  it  because  he  was  a  very 
unusual  person? 

He  was  looking  partly  at  the  river,  at  the  pines,  at  the 
flaming  tree,  and  partly  at  the  human  embodiment  of  the 
richness  and  color  of  autumn  before  him.  After  a  time 
Sylvia  said :  "  There's  Cassandra.  She's  the  only  one  who 
knows  of  the  impending  doom.  She's  trying  to  warn  the 
pines."    It  had  taken  her  some  moments  to  think  of  this. 

Page  accepted  it  with  no  sign  that  he  considered  it  any- 
thing remarkable,  with  the  habit  of  a  man  for  whom  people 
produced  their  best :  "  She's  using  some  very  fine  langujge 
for  her  warning,  but  like  some  other  fine  language  it's  a 
trifle  misapplied.  She  forgets  that  no  doom  hangs  over  the 
pines.    She's  the  fated  one.    They're  safe  enough." 

Sylvia  clasped  her  hands  about  her  knees  and  looked 
across  the  dark  water  at  the  somber  trees.  "  And  yet  they 
don't  seem  to  be  very  cheerful  about  it."  It  was  her  opinion 
that  they  were  talking  very  cleverly. 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  Page,  rolling  over  to  face  the 
river — "  perhaps  she's  not  prophesying  doom  at  all,  but 
blowing  a  trumpet-peal  of  exultation  over  her  own  good 
fortune.    The  pines  may  be  black  with  envy  of  her." 

Sylvia  enjoyed  this  rather  macabre  fancy  with  all  the  zest 
of  healthful  youth,  secure  in  the  conviction  of  its  own  im- 
mortality. "  Yes,  yes,  life's  ever  so  much  harder  than 
death." 

Page  dissented  with  a  grave  irony  from  the  romantic 
exaggeration  of  this  generalization.  "  I  don't  suppose  the 
statistics  as  to  the  relative  difficulty  of  life  and  death  are 
really  very  reliable." 


Sylvia  Meets  with  Pity  345 

Sylvia  perceived  that  she  was  being,  ever  so  delicately, 
laughed  at,  and  tried  to  turn  her  remark  so  that  she  could 
carry  it  off.  "  Oh,  I  don't  mean  for  those  who  die,  but  those 
who  are  left  know  something  about  it,  I  imagine.  My 
mother  always  said  that  the  encounter  with  death  is  the 
great  turning-point  in  the  lives  of  those  who  live  on.  She 
said  you  might  miss  everything  else  irrevocable  and  vital — 
falling  in  love,  having  children,  accomplishing  anything — 
but  that  sooner  or  later  you  have  to  reckon  with  losing  some- 
body dear  to  you."  She  spoke  with  an  academic  interest 
in  the  question. 

"  I  should  think,"  meditated  Page,  taking  the  matter  into 
serious  consideration,  "  that  the  vitalness  of  even  that  ex- 
perience would  depend  somewhat  on  the  character  under- 
going it.  I've  known  some  temperaments  of  a  proved 
frivolity  which  seemed  to  have  passed  through  it  without 
any  great  modifications.  But  then  I  know  nothing  about  it 
personally.  I  lost  my  father  before  I  could  remember  him, 
and  since  then  I  haven't  happened  to  have  any  close  en- 
counter with  such  loss.  My  mother,  you  know,  is  very 
much  alive." 

"  Well,  I  haven't  any  personal  experience  with  death  in 
my  immediate  circle  either,"  said  Sylvia.  "  But  I  wasn't 
brought  up  with  the  usual  cult  of  the  awfulness  of  it. 
Father  was  always  anxious  that  we  children  should  feel  it 
something  as  natural  as  breathing — you  are  dipped  up  from 
the  great  river  of  consciousness,  and  death  only  pours  you 
back.  If  you've  been  worth  living,  there  are  more  elements 
of  fineness  in  humanity." 

Page  nodded.  "  Yes,  that's  what  they  all  say  nowadays. 
Personal  immortality  is  as  out  of  fashion  as  big  sleeves." 

"  Do  you  believe  it  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  seeing  the  talk  take 
an  intimate  turn,  "  or  are  you  like  me,  and  don't  know  at 
all  what  you  do  believe?"  If  she  had  under  this  pseudo- 
philosophical  question  a  veiled  purpose  analogous  to  that  of 
the  less  subtle  charmer  whose  avowed  expedient  is  to  get 
"  a  man  to  talk  about  himself  "  the  manceuver  was  eminently 
successful. 


346  The  Bent  Twig 

"  I've  never  had  the  least  chance  to  think  about  it,"  he 
said,  sitting  up,  "  because  I've  always  been  so  damnably 
beset  by  the  facts  of  living.  I  know  I  am  not  the  first  of 
my  race  to  feel  convinced  that  his  own  problems  are  the 
most  complicated,  but  .  .  ." 

"  Yours!"  cried  Sylvia,  genuinely  astonished. 

"  And  one  of  the  hardships  of  my  position,"  he  told  her 
at  once  with  a  playful  bitterness,  "  is  that  everybody  refuses 
to  believe  in  the  seriousness  of  it.  Because  my  father, 
after  making  a  great  many  bad  guesses  as  to  the  possible 
value  of  mining  stock  in  Nevada,  happened  to  make  a  series 
of  good  guesses  about  the  value  of  mining  stock  in  Colo- 
rado, it  is  assumed  that  all  questions  are  settled  for  me, 
that  Lean  joyously  cultivate  my  garden,  securely  intrenched 
in  the  certainty  that  this  is  the  best  possible  of  all  possible 
worlds." 

"  Oh  yes — labor  unions — socialism — I.  W.  W.,"  Sylvia 
murmured  vaguely,  unable,  in  spite  of  her  intelligence,  to 
refrain  from  marking,  by  a  subsidence  of  interest,  her  in- 
stinctive feeling  that  those  distant  questions  could  not  in  the 
nature  of  things  be  compared  to  present,  personal  compli- 
cations. 

"  No — no — !  "  he  protested.  "  That's  no  go !  I've  tried 
for  five  years  now  to  shove  it  out  of  sight  on  some  one  of 
those  shelves.  I've  learned  all  the  arguments  on  both  sides. 
I  can  discuss  on  both  sides  of  those  names  as  glibly  as  any 
other  modern  quibbler.  I  can  prove  the  rights  of  all  those 
labels  or  I  can  prove  the  wrongs  of  them,  according  to  the 
way  my  dinner  is  digesting.  What  stays  right  there,  what 
I  never  can  digest  (if  you'll  pardon  an  inelegant  simile  that's 
just  occurred  to  me),  a  lump  I  never  can  either  swallow 
entirely  down  or  get  up  out  of  my  throat,  is  the  fact  that 
there  are  men,  hundreds  of  men,  thousands  of  men,  working 
with  picks  underground  all  day,  every  day,  all  their  lives, 
and  that  part  of  their  labor  goes  to  provide  me  with  the 
wherewithal  to  cultivate  my  taste,  to  pose  as  a  patron  of 
the  arts,  to  endow  promising  pianists — to  go  through  all  the 
motions  suitable  to  that  position  to  which  it  has  pleased 


Sylvia  Meets  with  Pity  347 

Providence  to  call  me.  It  sticks  in  my  crop  that  my  only 
connection  with  the  entire  business  was  to  give  myself  the 
trouble  to  be  born  my  father's  son." 

"  But  you  do  work !  "  protested  Sylvia.  "  You  work  on 
your  farm  here.  You  run  all  sorts  of  lumbering  operations 
in  this  region.  The  first  time  I  saw  you,  you  certainly  looked 
less  like  the  traditional  idea  of  a  predatory  coal-operator." 
She  laughed  at  the  recollection. 

"  Oh  yes,  I  work.  When  my  undigested  lump  gets  too 
painful  I  try  to  work  it  off — but  what  I  do  bears  the 
same  relation  to  real  sure-enough  work  that  playing  tennis 
does  to  laying  brick.  But  such  as  it  is,  it's  real  satisfaction 
I  get  out  of  my  minute  Vermont  holdings.  They  come 
down  to  me  from  my  farmer  great-grandfather  who  held 
the  land  by  working  it  himself.  There's  no  sore  spot  there. 
But  speak  of  Colorado  or  coal — and  you  see  me  jump  with 
the  same  shooting  twinge  you  feel  when  the  dentist's  probe 
reaches  a  nerve.  An  intelligent  conscience  is  a  luxury  a 
man  in  my  position  can't  afford  to  have."  He  began  with 
great  accuracy  to  toss  small  stones  at  a  log  showing  above 
the  surface  of  the  water. 

Sylvia,  reverting  to  a  chance  remark,  now  said :  "  I  never 
happened  to  hear  you  speak  of  your  mother  before.  Does 
she  ever  come  to  Lydford  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  No,  she  vibrates  between  the  Madi- 
son Avenue  house  and  the  Newport  one.  She's  very  happy 
in  those  two  places.  She's  Mr.  Sommerville's  sister,  you 
know.  She's  one  of  Morrison's  devotees  too.  She  col- 
lects under  his  guidance." 

"  Collects  ?  "  asked  Sylvia,  a  little  vaguely. 

"  Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  much  what — the  instinct,  the  re- 
sultant satisfaction  are  the  same.     As  a  child,  it's  stamps, 

or  buttons,  or  corks,  later  on As  a  matter  of  fact,  it's 

lace  that  my  mother  collects.  She  specializes  in  Venetian 
lace — the  older  the  better,  of  course.  The  connection  with 
coal-mines  is  obvious.  But  after  all,  her  own  fortune, 
coming  mostly  from  the  Sommerville  side,  is  derived  from- 
oil.    The  difference  is  great !  " 


348  The  Bent  Twig 

"Do  you  live  with  her?"  asked  Sylvia. 

"  My  washing  is  said  to  be  done  in  New  York,"  he  said 
seriously.  "  I  believe  that  settles  the  question  of  residence 
for  a  man." 

"  Oh,  how  quaint !  "  said  Sylvia,  laughing.  Then  with 
her  trained  instinct  for  contriving  a  creditable  exit  before 
being  driven  to  an  enforced  one  by  flagging  of  masculine 
interest,  she  rose  and  looked  at  her  watch. 

"  Oh,  don't  go !  "  he  implored  her.  "  It's  so  beautiful 
here — we  never  were  so — who  knows  when  we'll  ever  again 
be  in  so  .  .  ." 

Sylvia  divined  with  one  of  her  cymbal-claps  that  he  had 
meant,  perhaps,  that  very  afternoon  to —  She  felt  a  dis- 
sonant clashing  of  triumph  and  misgiving.  She  thought 
she  decided  quite  coolly,  quite  dryly,  that  pursuit  always 
lent  luster  to  the  object  pursued ;  but  in  reality  she  did  not 
at  all  recognize  the  instinct  which  bade  her  say,  turning 
her  watch  around  on  her  wrist :  "  It's  quite  late.  I  don't 
think  I'd  better  stay  longer.  Aunt  Victoria  likes  dinner 
promptly."     She  turned  to  go. 

He  took  his  small  defeat  with  his  usual  imperturbable 
good  nature,  in  which  Sylvia  not  infrequently  thought  she 
detected  a  flavor  of  the  unconscious  self-assurance  of  the 
very  rich  and  much-courted  man.  He  scrambled  to  his 
feet  now  promptly,  and  fell  into  step  with  her  quick-tread- 
ing advance.  "  You're  right,  of  course.  There's  no  need  to 
be  grasping.  There's  tomorrow — and  the  day  after — and 
the  day  after  that — and  if  it  rains  we  can  wear  rubbers  and 
carry  umbrellas." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  carry  an  umbrella  for  a  walk  in  the  rain," 
she  told  him.  "  It's  one  of  our  queer  Marshall  ways.  We 
only  own  one  umbrella  for  the  whole  family  at  home, 
and  that's  to  lend.  I  wear  a  rubber  coat  and  put  on  a 
sou'wester  and  let  it  rain." 

"  You  would !  "  he  said  in  an  unconscious  imitation  of 
Arnold's  accent. 

She  laughed  up  at  him.  "  Shall  I  confess  why  I  do  ? 
Because  my  hair  is  naturally  curly." 


Sylvia  Meets  with  Pity  349 

"  Confession  has  to  be  prompter  than  that  to  save  souls," 
he  answered.  "  I  knew  it  was,  five  weeks  ago,  when  you 
splashed  the  water  up  on  it  so  recklessly  there  by  the 
brook." 

She  was  astonished  by  this  revelation  of  depths  behind 
that  well-remembered  clear  gaze  of  admiration,  and  dis- 
mayed by  such  unnatural  accuracy  of  observation. 

"  How  cynical  of  you  to  make  such  a  mental  com- 
ment !  " 

He  apologized.  "It  was  automatic — unconscious.  I've 
had  a  good  deal  of  opportunity  to  observe  young  ladies." 
And  then,  as  though  aware  that  the  ice  was  thin  over  an 
unpleasant  subject,  he  shifted  the  talk.  "  Upon  my  word, 
I  wonder  how  Molly  and  Morrison  will  manage  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Molly's  wonderful.  She'd  manage  anything,"  said 
Sylvia  with  conviction. 

"  Morrison  is  rather  wonderful  himself,"  advanced  Page. 
"  And  that's  a  magnanimous  concession  for  me  to  make 
when  I'm  now  so  deep  in  his  bad  books.  Do  you  know,  by 
the  way,"  he  asked,  looking  with  a  quick  interrogation  at 
the  girl,  "why  I'm  so  out  of  favor  with  him?" 

Sylvia's  eyes  opened  wide.  She  gazed  at  him,  startled, 
fascinated.  Could  "  it "  be  coming  so  suddenly,  in  this 
casual,  abrupt  manner  ?  "  No,  I  don't  know,"  she  managed 
to  say;  and  braced  herself. 

"  I  don't  blame  him  in  the  least.  It  was  very  vexing.  I 
went  back  on  him — so  to  speak;  dissolved  an  aesthetic 
partnership,  in  which  he  furnished  the  brains,  and  my  coal- 
mines the  sinews  of  art.  /  was  one  of  his  devotees,  you 
know.  For  some  years  after  I  got  out  of  college  I  col- 
lected under  his  guidance,  as  my  mother  does,  as  so  many 
people  do.  I  even  specialized.  I  don't  like  to  boast,  but  I 
dare  affirm  that  no  man  knows  more  than  I  about  sixteenth 
century  mezza-majolica.  It  is  a  branch  of  human  knowl- 
edge which  you  must  admit  is  singularly  appropriate  for  a 
dweller  in  the  twentieth  century.  And  of  great  value  to 
the  world.    My  collection  was  one  of  Morrison's  triumphs." 

Sylvia  felt  foolish  and  discomfited.     With  an  effort  she 


350  The  Bent  Twig 

showed  a  proper  interest  in  his  remarks.  "  Was  ?  "  she 
asked.    "  What  happened  to  it  ?  " 

"  I  went  back  on  it.  In  one  of  the  first  of  those  fits  of 
moral  indigestion.  One  day,  I'd  been  reading  a  report  in 
one  of  the  newspapers  on  the  status  of  the  coal-miner,  and 
the  connection  between  my  bright-colored  pots  and  platters, 
and  my  father's  lucky  guess,  became  a  little  too  dramatic 
for  my  taste.  I  gave  the  collection  to  the  Metropolitan,  and 
I've  never  bought  a  piece  since.  Morrison  was  immensely 
put  out.  He'd  been  to  great  trouble  to  find  some  fine 
Fontana  specimens  for  me.    And  then  not  to  have  me  look 

at  them He  was  right  too.    It  was  a  silly,  pettish  thing 

to  do.  I  didn't  know  any  better  then.  I  don't  know  any 
better  now." 

It  began  to  dawn  on  Sylvia  that,  under  his  air  of  whim- 
sical self-mockery  he  was  talking  to  her  seriously.  She 
tried  to  adjust  herself  to  this,  to  be  sympathetic,  earnest; 
though  she  was  still  smarting  with  the  sense  of  having  ap- 
peared to  herself  as  undignified  and  ridiculous. 

"  And  besides  that,"  he  went  on,  looking  away,  down 
the  dusty  highroad  they  were  then  crossing  on  their  way 
back  to  the  house — "  besides  that,  I  went  back  on  a  great 
scheme  of  Morrison's  for  a  National  Academy  of  ^Esthetic 
Instruction,  which  I  was  to  finance  and  he  to  organize.  He 
had  gone  into  all  the  details.  He  had  shown  wonderful 
capacity.  It's  really  very  magnanimous  of  him  not  to  bear 
me  more  of  a  grudge.  He  thought  that  giving  it  up  was 
one  of  my  half-baked  ideas.  And  it  was.  As  far  as  any- 
thing I've  accomplished  since,  I  might  as  well  have  been 
furthering  the  appreciation  of  Etruscan  vases  in  the  Middle- 
West.  But  then,  I  don't  think  he'll  miss  it  now.  If  he 
still  has  a  fancy  for  it,  he  can  do  it  with  Molly's  money. 
She  has  plenty.  But  I  don't  believe  he  will.  It  has  oc- 
curred to  me  lately  (it's  an  idea  that's  been  growing  on  me 
about  everybody)  that  Morrison,  like  most  of  us,  has  been 
miscast.  He  doesn't  really  care  a  continental  about  the 
aesthetic  salvation  of  the  country.  It's  only  the  contagion 
of  the  American  craze  for  connecting  everything  with  social 


Sylvia  Meets  with  Pity  351 

betterment,  tagging  everything  with  that  label,  that  ever 
made  him  think  he  did.  He's  far  too  thoroughgoing  an 
aesthete  himself.  What  he  was  brought  into  the  world  for, 
was  to  appreciate,  as  nobody  else  can,  all  sorts  of  esoterically 
fine  things.  Now  that  he'll  be  able  to  gratify  that  taste, 
he'll  find  his  occupation  in  it.  Why  shouldn't  he?  It'd 
be  a  hideously  leveled  world  if  everybody  was  trying  to  be 
a  reformer.  Besides,  who'd  be  left  to  reform?  I  love  to 
contemplate  a  genuine,  whole-souled  appreciator  like  Mor- 
rison, without  any  qualms  about  the  way  society  is  put 
together.  And  I  envy  him !  I  envy  him  as  blackly  as  your 
pines  envied  the  sumac.  He's  got  out  of  the  wrong  role 
into  the  right  one.    I  wish  to  the  Lord  I  could ! " 

They  were  close  to  the  house  now,  in  the  avenue  of  pop- 
lars, yellow  as  gold  above  them  in  the  quick-falling  autumn 
twilight.  Sylvia  spoke  with  a  quick,  spirited  sincerity,  her 
momentary  pique  forgotten,  her  feeling  rushing  out  gen- 
erously to  meet  the  man's  simple  openness.  "  Oh,  that's 
the  problem  for  all  of  us!  To  know  what  role  to  play! 
If  you  think  it  hard  for  you  who  have  only  to  choose — how 

about  the   rest  of  us   who   must ?"     She   broke   off. 

"  What's  that  ?     What's  that  ?  " 

She  had  almost  stumbled  over  a  man's  body,  lying  prone, 
half  in  the  driveway,  half  on  the  close-clipped  grass  on 
the  side;  a  well-dressed  man,  tall,  thin,  his  limbs  sprawled 
about  broken-jointedly.  He  lay  on  his  back,  his  face 
glimmering  white  in  the  clear,  dim  dusk.  Sylvia  recog- 
nized him  with  a  cry.  "  Oh,  it's  Arnold !  He's  been  struck 
by  a  car !    He's  dead !  " 

She  sprang  forward,  and  stopped  short,  at  gaze,  frozen. 

The  man  sat  up,  propping  himself  on  his  hands  and 
looked  at  her,  a  wavering  smile  on  his  lips.  He  began  to 
speak,  a  thick,  unmodulated  voice,  as  though  his  throat 
were  stiff.  "  Comingtomeetyou,"  he  articulated  very  rapidly 
and  quite  unintelligibly,  "  an  'countered  hill  in  driveway 
,  .  .  no  hill  in  driveway,  and  climbed  and  climbed  " — he 
lost  himself  in  repetition  and  brought  up  short  to  begin 
again,  " — labor  so  'cessive  had  to  rest " 


352  The  Bent  Twig 

Sylvia  turned  a  paper-white  face  on  her  companion. 
t(  What's  the  matter  with  him  ?  "  she  tried  to  say,  but  Page 
only  saw  her  lips  move.  He  made  no  answer.  That  she 
would  know  in  an  instant  what  was  the  matter  flickered 
from  her  eyes,  from  her  trembling  white  lips ;  that  she  did 
know,  even  as  she  spoke,  was  apparent  from  the  scorn  and 
indignation  which  like  sheet-lightning  leaped  out  on  him. 
"  Arnold !    For  shame!    Arnold !    Think  of  Judith !  " 

At  the  name  he  frowned  vaguely  as  though  it  suggested 
something  extremely  distressing  to  him,  though  he  evidently 
did  not  recognize  it.  "Judish?  Judish?"  he  repeated, 
drawing  his  brows  together  and  making  a  grimace  of  great 
pain.     "What's  Judish?" 

And  then,  quite  suddenly  the  pain  and  distress  were 
wiped  from  his  face  by  sodden  vacuity.  He  had  hitched 
himself  to  one  of  the  poplars,  and  now  leaned  against  this, 
his  head  bent  on  his  shoulder  at  the  sickening  angle  of  a 
man  hanged,  his  eyes  glassy,  his  mouth  open,  a  trickle  of 
saliva  flowing  from  one  corner.  He  breathed  hard  and 
loudly.  There  was  nothing  there  but  a  lump  of  uncomely 
flesh. 

Sylvia  shrank  back  from  the  sight  with  such  disgust  that 
she  felt  her  flesh  creep.  She  turned  a  hard,  angry  face  on 
Page.  "  Oh,  the  beast !  The  beast ! "  she  cried,  under  her 
breath.  She  felt  defiled.  She  hated  Arnold.  She  hated 
life. 

Page  said  quietly :  "  You'll  excuse  my  not  going  with 
you  to  the  house?  I'll  have  my  car  and  chauffeur  here 
in  a  moment."  He  stepped  away  quickly  and  Sylvia  turned 
to  flee  into  the  house. 

But  something  halted  her  flying  feet.  She  hesitated, 
stopped,  and  pressed  her  hands  together  hard.  He  could 
not  be  left  alone  there  in  the  driveway.  A  car  might  run 
over  him  in  the  dusk.     She  turned  back. 

She  stood  there,  alone  with  the  horror  under  the  tree. 
She  turned  her  back  on  it,  but  she  could  see  nothing  but 
the  abject,  strengthless  body,  the  dreadful  ignominy  of  the 
face.    They  filled  the  world. 


Sylvia  Meets  with  Pity  353 

And  then  quickly — everything  came  quickly  to  Sylvia — 
there  stood  before  her  the  little  boy  who  had  come  to  see 
them  in  La  Chance  so  long  ago,  the  little  honest-eyed  boy 
who  had  so  loved  her  mother  and  Judith,  who  had  loved 
Pauline  the  maid  and  suffered  with  her  pain ;  and  then  the 
bigger  boy  who  out  of  his  weakness  had  begged  for  a  share 
of  her  mother's  strength  and  been  refused ;  and  then  the 
man,  still  honest-eyed,  who,  aimless,  wavering,  had  cried 
out  to  her  in  misery  upon  the  emptiness  of  his  life;  and 
who  later  had  wept  those  pure  tears  of  joy  that  he  had 
found  love.  She  had  a  moment  of  insight,  of  vision,  of 
terrible  understanding.  She  did  not  know  what  was  tak- 
ing place  within  her,  something  racking — spasmodic  throes 
of  sudden  growth,  the  emergence  for  the  first  time  in  all  her 
life  of  the  capacity  for  pity  ... 

When,  only  a  moment  or  two  later,  Page's  car  came 
swiftly  down  the  driveway,  and  he  sprang  out,  he  found 
Sylvia  sitting  by  the  drunkard,  the  quiet  tears  streaming 
down  her  face.  She  had  wiped  his  mouth  with  her  hand- 
kerchief, she  held  his  limp  hand  in  hers,  his  foolish  staring 
face  was  hidden  on  her  shoulder.  .  .  . 

The  two  men  lifted  him  bodily,  an  ignoble,  sagging  weight, 
into  the  car.  She  stood  beside  him  and,  without  a  word, 
stooped  and  gently  disposed  his  slackly  hanging  arms  be- 
side him. 

Dark  had  quite  fallen  by  this  time.  They  were  all  silent, 
shadowy  forms.  She  felt  that  Page  was  at  her  side.  He 
leaned  to  her.    Her  hand  was  taken  and  kissed. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

MUCH  ADO  .  .  . 

The  rest  of  October  was  a  period  never  clear  in  Sylvia's 
head.  Everything  that  happened  was  confusing  and  almost 
everything  was  painful;  and  a  great  deal  happened.  She 
had  thought  at  the  time  that  nothing  would  ever  blur  in 
her  mind  the  shock  of  finding  Aunt  Victoria  opposed  to 
what  seemed  to  her  the  first  obvious  necessity:  writing  to 
Judith  about  Arnold.  She  had  been  trying  for  a  long  time 
now  with  desperate  sincerity  to  take  the  world  as  she 
found  it,  to  see  people  as  they  were  with  no  fanatic  in- 
tolerance, to  realize  her  own  inexperience  of  life,  to  be 
broad,  to  take  in  without  too  much  of  a  wrench  another 
point  of  view ;  but  to  Aunt  Victoria's  idea,  held  quite  simply 
and  naturally  by  that  lady,  that  Judith  be  kept  in  ignorance 
of  Arnold's  habits  until  after  marriage,  Sylvia's  mind  closed 
as  automatically,  as  hermetically  as  an  oyster-shell  snaps 
shut.  She  could  not  discuss  it,  she  could  not  even  attend 
with  hearing  ears  to  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  very  reasonable 
! presentation  of  her  case;  the  long  tradition  as  to  the  justi- 
fiability of  such  ignorance  on  a  bride's  part;  the  impossi- 
bility that  any  woman  should  ever  know  all  of  any  man's 
character  before  marriage;  the  strong  presumption  that 
marriage  with  a  woman  he  adored  would  cure  habits  con- 
tracted only  through  the  inevitable  aimlessness  of  too  much 
wealth;  the  fact  that,  once  married,  a  woman  like  Judith 
would  accept,  and  for  the  most  part  deal  competently  with, 
facts  which  would  frighten  her  in  her  raw  girlish  state  of 
ignorance  and  crudeness.  Sylvia  did  not  even  hear  these 
arguments  and  many  more  like  them,  dignified  with  the 
sanction  of  generations  of  women  trying  their  best  to  deal 
with  life.     She  had  never  thought  of  the  question  before. 

354 


Much  Ado  .  .  .  255 

It  was  the  sort  of  thing  from  which  she  had  always  averted 
her  moral  eyes  with  extreme  distaste ;  but  now  that  it  was 
forced  on  her,  her  reaction  to  it  was  instantaneous.  From 
the  depths  of  her  there  rose  up  fresh  in  its  original  vigor, 
never  having  been  dulled  by  a  single  enforced  compliance 
with  a  convention  running  counter  to  a  principle,  the  most 
irresistible  instinct  against  concealment.  She  did  not  argue ; 
she  could  not.  She  could  only  say  with  a  breathless  cer- 
tainty against  which  there  was  no  holding  out :  "  Judith 
must  know  !    Judith  must  know  !  " 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  alarmed  by  the  prospect  of  a 
passage-at-arms,  decreed  quietly  that  they  should  both 
sleep  on  the  question  and  take  it  up  the  next  morning.  Syl- 
via had  not  slept.  She  had  lain  in  her  bed,  wide-eyed;  a 
series  of  pictures  passing  before  her  eyes  with  the  un- 
natural vividness  of  hallucinations.  These  pictures  were 
not  only  of  Arnold,  of  Arnold  again,  of  Arnold  and  Judith. 
There  were  all  sorts  of  odd  bits  of  memories — a  conversa- 
tion overheard  years  before,  between  her  father  and  Law- 
rence, when  Lawrence  was  a  little,  little  boy.  He  had 
asked — it  was  like  Lawrence's  eerie  ways — apropos  of  noth- 
ing at  all,  "  What  sort  of  a  man  was  Aunt  Victoria's  hus- 
band?" 

His  father  had  said,  "  A  rich  man,  very  rich."  This 
prompt  appearance  of  readiness  to  answer  had  silenced  the 
child  for  a  moment :  and  then  ( Sylvia  could  see  his  thin 
little  hands  patting  down  the  sand-cake  he  was  making) 
he  had  persisted,  "  What  kind  of  a  rich  man  ?  "  His  father 
had  said,  "  Well,  he  was  bald — quite  bald — Lawrence,  come 
run  a  race  with  me  to  the  woodshed."  Sylvia  now,  ten 
years  later,  wondered  why  her  father  had  evaded.  What 
kind  of  a  man  had  Arnold's  father  been? 

But  chiefly  she  braced  herself  for  the  struggle  with  Aunt 
Victoria  in  the  morning.  It  came  to  her  in  fleeting  glimpses 
that  Aunt  Victoria  would  be  only  human  if  she  resented 
with  some  heat  this  entire  disregard  of  her  wishes ;  that  the 
discussion  might  very  well  end  in  a  quarrel,  and  that  a 
quarrel  would  mean  the  end  of  Lydford  with  all  that  Lyd- 


356  The  Bent  Twig 

ford  meant  now  and  potentially.  But  this  perception  was 
swept  out  of  sight,  like  everything  else,  in  the  single- 
ness of  her  conviction  :  "  Judith  must  know !  Judith  must 
know !  " 

There  was,  however,  no  struggle  with  Aunt  Victoria  in 
the  morning.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  encountering  the  same 
passionate  outcry,  recognized  an  irresistible  force  when  she 
encountered  it ;  recognized  it,  in  fact,  soon  enough  to  avoid 
the  long-drawn-out  acrimony  of  discussion  into  which  a 
less  intelligent  woman  would  inevitably  have  plunged; 
recognized  it  almost,  but  not  quite,  in  time  to  shut  of!  from 
Sylvia's  later  meditations  certain  startling  vistas  down 
which  she  had  now  only  fleeting  glimpses.  "  Very  well,, 
my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  her  cherished  clarity 
always  unclouded  by  small  resentments, — "very  well,  we  will 
trust  in  your  judgment  rather  than  my  own.  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  understand  present-day  girls,  though  I  manage  to 
be  very  fond  of  one  of  them.  Judith  is  your  sister.  You 
will  do,  of  course,  what  you  think  is  right.  It  means,  of 
course,  Judith  being  what  she  is,  that  she  will  instantly 
cast  him  off ;  and  Arnold  being  what  he  is,  that  means  that 
he  will  drink  himself  into  delirium  tremens  in  six  months. 
His  father  .  .  ."  She  stopped  short,  closing  with  some 
haste  the  door  to  a  vista,  and  poured  herself  another  cup 
of  coffee.  They  were  having  breakfast  in  her  room,  both 
in  negligee  and  lacy  caps,  two  singularly  handsome  rep- 
resentatives of  differing  generations.  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith 
looked  calm,  Sylvia  extremely  agitated.  She  had  been 
awake  at  the  early  hour  of  deadly  pale  dawn  when  a  swift, 
long-barreled  car  had  drawn  up  under  the  porte-cochere  and 
Arnold  had  been  taken  away  under  the  guard  of  a  short, 
broad,  brawny  man  with  disproportionately  long  arms. 
She  was  not  able  to  swallow  a  mouthful  of  breakfast. 

During  the  night,  she  had  not  looked  an  inch  beyond  her 
blind  passion  of  insistence.  Now  that  Aunt  Victoria 
yielded  with  so  disconcerting  a  suddenness,  she  faced  with 
a  pang  what  lay  beyond.  "  Oh,  Judith  wouldn't  cast  him 
off!     She  loves  him  so!     She'll  give  him  a  chance.     You 


Much  Ado  .  .  .  357 

don't  know  Judith.  She  doesn't  care  about  many  things, 
but  she  gives  herself  up  absolutely  to  those  that  do  matter  to 
her.  She  adores  Arnold!  It  fairly  frightened  me  to  see 
how  she  was  burning  up  when  he  was  near.  She'll  insist 
on  his  reforming,  of  course — she  ought  to — but " 

"  Suppose  he  doesn't  reform  to  suit  her,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith,  stirring  her  coffee.  "  He's  been  reformed 
at  intervals  ever  since  he  was  fifteen.  He  never  could  stay 
through  a  whole  term  in  any  decent  boys'  school."  Here 
was  a  vista,  ruthlessly  opened.  Sylvia's  eyes  looked  down 
it  and  shuddered.  "  Poor  Arnold ! "  she  said  under  her 
breath,  pushing  away  her  untasted  cup. 

"  I'm  dull  enough  to  find  you  take  an  odd  way  to  show 
your  sympathy  for  him,"  murmured  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith, 
with  none  of  the  acidity  the  words  themselves  seemed  to 
indicate.  She  seemed  indeed  genuinely  perplexed.  "  It's 
not  been  exactly  a  hilarious  element  in  my  life  either.  But 
I've  always  tried  to  hold  on  to  Arnold.  I  thought  it  my 
duty.  And  now,  since  Felix  Morrison  has  found  this  excel- 
lent specialist  for  me,  it's  much  easier.  I  telegraph  to  him 
and  he  comes  at  once  and  takes  Arnold  back  to  his  sani- 
tarium, till  he's  himself  again."  For  the  first  time  in  weeks 
Morrison's  name  brought  up  between  them  no  insistently 
present,  persistently  ignored  shadow.  The  deeper  shadow 
now  blotted  him  out. 

"  But  Aunt  Victoria,  it's  for  Judith  to  decide.  She'll  do 
the  right  thing." 

"  Sometimes  people  are  thrown  by  circumstances  into  a 
situation  where  they  wouldn't  have  dreamed  of  putting 
themselves — and  yet  they  rise  to  it  and  conquer  it,"  philos- 
ophized Aunt  Victoria.  "  Life  takes  hold  of  us  with  strong 
hands  and  makes  us  greater  than  we  thought.  Judith  will 
mean  to  do  the  right  thing.  If  she  were  married,  she'd 
haz'e  to  do  it !  It  seems  to  me  a  great  responsibility  you 
take,  Sylvia — you  may,  with  the  best  of  intentions  in  the 
world,  be  ruining  the  happiness  of  two  lives." 

Sylvia  got  up,  her  eyes  red  with  unshed  tears.  It  was 
not  the  first  time  that  morning.    "  It's  all  too  horrible,"  she 


358  The  Bent  Twig 

murmured.  "  But  I  haven't  any  right  to  conceal  it  from 
Judith." 

Her  eyes  were  still  red  when,  an  hour  later,  she  stepped 
into  the  room  again  and  said,  "  I've  mailed  it." 

Her  aunt,  still  in  lavender  silk  negligee,  so  far  pro- 
gressed towards  the  day's  toilet  as  to  have  her  hair  care- 
fully dressed,  looked  up  from  the  Revue  Bleue,  and  nodded. 
Her  expression  was  one  of  quiet  self-possession. 

Sylvia  came  closer  to  her  and  sat  down  on  a  straight- 
backed  chair.  She  was  dressed  for  the  street,  and  hatted,  as 
though  she  herself  had  gone  out  to  mail  the  letter.  "  And 
now,  Tantine,"  she  said,  with  the  resolute  air  of  one  broach- 
ing a  difficult  subject,  "  I  think  I  ought  to  be  planning  to 
go  home  very  soon."  It  was  a  momentous  speech,  and 
a  momentous  pause  followed  it.  It  had  occurred  to  Sylvia, 
still  shaken  with  the  struggle  over  the  question  of  secrecy, 
that  she  could,  in  decency,  only  offer  to  take  herself  away, 
after  so  violently  antagonizing  her  hostess.  She  realized 
with  what  crude  intolerance  she  had  attacked  the  other 
woman's  position,  how  absolutely  with  claw  and  talon  she 
had  demolished  it.  She  smarted  with  the  sense  that  she  had 
seemed  oblivious  of  an  "  obligation."  She  detested  the 
sense  of  obligation.  And  having  become  aware  of  a  debt 
due  her  dignity,  she  had  paid  it  hastily,  on  the  impulse  of 
the  moment.  But  as  the  words  still  echoed  in  the  air,  she 
was  struck  to  see  how  absolutely  her  immediate  future,  all 
her  future,  perhaps,  depended  on  the  outcome  of  that  con- 
versation she  herself  had  begun.  She  looked  fixedly  at  her 
aunt,  trying  to  prepare  herself  for  anything.  But  she  was 
not  prepared  for  what  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  did. 

She  swept  the  magazine  from  her  lap  to  the  floor  and 
held  out  her  arms  to  Sylvia.  "  I  had  hoped — I  had  hoped 
you  were  happy — with  me,"  she  said,  and  in  her  voice  was 
that  change  of  quality,  that  tremor  of  sincerity  which  Sylvia 
had  always  found  profoundly  moving.  The  girl  was  over- 
come with  astonishment  and  remorse — and  immense  relief. 
She  ran  to  her.  "  Oh,  I  am !  I  am !  I  was  only  thinking — 
I've  gone  against  your  judgment."     Her  nerves,  stretched 


Much  Ado  .  .  .  359 

with  the  sleepless  night  and  the  strain  of  writing  the  dread- 
ful letter  to  Judith,  gave  way.  She  broke  into  sobs.  She 
put  her  arms  tightly  around  her  aunt's  beautiful  neck  and 
laid  her  head  on  her  shoulder,  weeping,  her  heart  swelling, 
her  mind  in  a  whirling  mass  of  disconnected  impressions. 
Arnold — Judith  .  .  .  how  strange  it  was  that  Aunt  Vic- 
toria really  cared  for  her — did  she  really  care  for  Aunt 
Victoria  or  only  admire  her? — did  she  really  care  for  any- 
body, since  she  was  agreeing  to  stay  longer  away  from  her 
father  and  mother? — how  good  it  would  be  not  to  have 
to  give  up  Helene's  services — what  a  heartless,  materialistic 
girl  she  was — she  cared  for  nothing  but  luxury  and  money 
— she  would  be  going  abroad  now  to  Paris — Austin  Page — 
he  had  kissed  her  hand  .  .  .  and  yet  she  felt  that  he  saw 
through  her,  saw  through  her  mean  little  devices  and  strata- 
gems— how  astonishing  that  he  should  be  so  very,  very 
rich — it  seemed  that  a  very,  very  rich  man  ought  to  be 
different  from  other  men — his  powers  were  so  unnaturally 
great — girls  could  not  feel  naturally  about  him  .  .  .  And 
all  the  while  that  these  varying  reflections  passed  at  light- 
ning speed  through  her  mind,  her  nervous  sobs  were  con- 
tinuing. 

Aunt  Victoria  taking  them,  naturally  enough,  as  signs 
of  continued  remorse,  lifted  her  out  of  this  supposed  slough 
of  despond  with  affectionate  peremptoriness.  "Don't  feel 
so  badly  about  it,  darling.  We  won't  have  any  more  talk 
for  the  present  about  differing  judgments,  or  of  going 
away,  or  of  anything  uncomfortable  " ;  and  in  this  way,  with 
nothing  clearly  understood,  on  a  foundation  indeed  of  mis- 
understanding, the  decision  was  made,  in  the  haphazard 
fashion  which  characterizes  most  human  decisions. 

The  rest  of  the  month  was  no  more  consecutive  or  logical. 
Into  the  midst  of  the  going-away  confusion  of  a  household 
about  to  remove  itself  half  around  the  world,  into  a  house 
distracted  with  packing,  cheerless  with  linen-covers,  deso- 
late with  rolled-up  rugs  and  cold  lunches  and  half-packed 
trunks,  came,  in  a  matter-of-fact  manner  characteristic  of 
its  writer,  Judith's  answer  to  Sylvia's  letter.    Sylvia  opened 


360  The  Bent  Twig 

it,  shrinking  and  fearful  of  what  she  would  read.  She  had, 
in  the  days  since  hers  had  been  sent,  imagined  Judith's  an- 
swer in  every  possible  form ;  but  never  in  any  form  remotely 
resembling  what  Judith  wrote.  The  letter  stated  in  Judith's 
concise  style  that  of  course  she  agreed  with  Sylvia  that  there 
should  be  no  secrets  between  betrothed  lovers,  nor,  in  this 
case,  were  there  any.  Arnold  had  told  her,  the  evening  be- 
fore she  left  Lydford,  that  he  had  inherited  an  alcoholic 
tendency  from  his  father.  She  had  been  in  communication 
with  a  great  specialist  in  Wisconsin  about  the  case.  She 
knew  of  the  sanitarium  to  which  Arnold  had  been  taken  and 
did  not  like  it.  The  medical  treatment  there  was  not  serious. 
She  hoped  soon  to  have  him  transferred  to  the  care  of  Dr. 
Rivedal.  If  Arnold's  general  constitution  were  still  sound, 
there  was  every  probability  of  a  cure.  Doctors  knew  so 
much  more  about  that  sort  of  thing  than  they  used  to.  Had 
Sylvia  heard  that  Madame  La  Rue  was  not  a  bit  well,  that 
old  trouble  with  her  heart,  only  worse?  They'd  been 
obliged  to  hire  a  maid — how  in  the  world  were  the  La  Rues 
going  to  exist  on  American  cooking?  Cousin  Parnelia  said 
she  could  cure  Madame  with  some  Sanopractic  nonsense,  a 
new  fad  that  Cousin  Parnelia  had  taken  up  lately.  Pro- 
fessor Kennedy  had  been  elected  vice-president  of  the 
American  Mathematical  Association,  and  it  was  funny  to 
see  him  try  to  pretend  that  he  wasn't  pleased.  Mother's 
garden  this  autumn  was  .  .  . 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Sylvia,  stopping  short.  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall-Smith had  stopped  to  listen  in  the  midst  of  the  ex- 
hausting toil  of  telling  Helene  which  dresses  to  pack  and 
which  to  leave  hanging  in  the  Lydford  house.  She  now 
resumed  her  labors  unflaggingly,  waving  away  to  the  closet 
a  mauve  satin,  and  beckoning  into  a  trunk  a  favorite  black- 
and-white  chiffon.  To  Sylvia  she  said,  "  Now  I  know 
exactly  how  a  balloon  feels  when  it  is  pricked." 

Sylvia  agreed  ruefully.  "  I  might  have  known  Judith 
would  manage  to  make  me  feel  flat  if  I  got  wrought  up  about 
it.  She  hates  a  fuss  made  over  anything,  and  she  can  al- 
ways take  you  down  if  you  make  one."     She  remembered 


Much  Ado  ...  361 

with  a  singular  feeling  of  discomfiture  the  throbbing 
phrases  of  her  letter,  written  under  the  high  pressure  of 
the  quarrel  with  Aunt  Victoria.  She  could  almost  see  the 
expression  of  austere  distaste  in  the  stern  young  beauty  of 
Judith's  face.    Judith  was  always  making  her  appear  foolish ! 

"  We  were  both  of  us,"  commented  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith 
dryly,  "  somewhat  mistaken  about  the  degree  of  seriousness 
with  which  Judith  would  take  the  information." 

Sylvia  forgot  her  vexation  and  sprang  loyally  to  Judith's 
defense.  "  Why,  of  course  she  takes  it  like  a  trained  nurse, 
like  a  doctor — feels  it  a  purely  medical  affair — as  I  suppose 
it  is.  We  might  have  known  she'd  feel  that  way.  But  as 
to  how  she  really  feels  inside,  personally,  you  can't  teE 
anything  by  her  letter !  You  probably  couldn't  tell  anything 
by  her  manner  if  she  were  here.  You  never  can.  She  may 
be  simply  wild  about  a  thing  inside,  but  you'd  never  guess." 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  ventured  to  express  some  skepticism 
as  to  the  existence  of  volcanic  feelings  always  so  sedulously 
concealed.  "  After  all,  can  you  be  so  very  sure  that  she  is 
ever  '  simply  wild '  if  she  never  shows  anything  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you're  sure,  all  right,  if  you've  lived  with  her — you 
feel  it.  And  then,  after  about  so  long  a  time  of  keeping  it 
down,  she  breaks  loose  and  does  something  awful,  that  I'd 
never  have  the  nerve  to  do,  and  tears  into  flinders  anything 
she  doesn't  think  is  right.  Why,  when  we  were  little  girls 
and  went  to  the  public  schools  together,  two  of  our  little 
playmates,  who  turned  out  to  have  a  little  negro  blood, 
we  .  .  ."  Sylvia  stopped,  suddenly  warned  by  some  in- 
stinct that  Aunt  Victoria  would  not  be  a  sympathetic  lis- 
tener to  that  unforgotten  episode  of  her  childhood,  that  epi- 
sode which  had  seemed  to  have  no  consequences,  no  sequel, 
but  which  ever  since  that  day  had  insensibly  affected  the 
course  of  her  growth,  like  a  great  rock  fallen  into  the 
current  of  her  life. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  deliberating  with  bated  breath  be- 
tween broadcloth  and  blue  panama,  did  not  notice  the 
pause.  She  did,  however,  add  a  final  comment  on  the 
matter,  some  moments  later,  when  she  observed,  "  How 


362  The  Bent  Twig 

any  girl  in  her  senses  can  go  on  studying,  when  she's  en- 
gaged to  a  man  who  needs  her  as  much  as  Arnold  needs 
Judith ! "  To  which  Sylvia  answered  irrelevantly  with  a 
thought  which  had  just  struck  her  thrillingly,  "  But  how  per- 
fectly fine  of  Arnold  to  tell  her  himself !  M 

"  She  must  have  hypnotized  him,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  with  conviction,  "  but  then  I  don't  pretend  to  under- 
stand the  ways  of  young  people  nowadays."  She  was  now 
forty-five,  in  the  full  bloom  of  a  rarely  preserved  beauty,  and 
could  afford  to  make  remarks  about  the  younger  generation. 
"  At  any  rate,"  she  went  on,  "  it  is  a  comfort  to  know  that 
Judith  has  set  her  hand  to  the  wheel.  J  have  not  in  years 
crossed  the  ocean  with  so  much  peace  of  mind  about  Arnold 
as  I  shall  have  this  time,"  said  his  stepmother.  "  No,  leave 
that  blue  voile,  Helene,  the  collar  never  fitted." 

"  Oh,  he  doesn't  spend  the  winters  in  Paris  with  you  ?  " 
asked  Sylvia. 

"  He's  been  staying  here  in  Lydford  of  late — crazy  as 
it  sounds.  He  was  simply  so  bored  that  he  couldn't  think 
of  anything  else  to  do.  He  has,  besides,  an  absurd  theory 
that  he  enjoys  it  more  in  winter  than  in  summer.  He  says 
the  natives  are  to  be  seen  then.  He's  been  here  from  his 
childhood.  He  knows  a  good  many  of  them,  I  suppose. 
Now,  Helene,  let's  see  the  gloves  and  hats." 

It  came  over  Sylvia  with  a  passing  sense  of  great  strange- 
ness that  she  had  been  in  this  spot  for  four  months  and, 
with  the  exception  of  the  men  at  the  fire,  she  had  not  met, 
had  not  spoken  to,  had  not  even  consciously  seen  a  single 
inhabitant  of  the  place. 

And  in  the  end,  she  went  away  in  precisely  the  same  state 
of  ignorance.  On  the  day  they  drove  to  the  station  she  did, 
indeed,  give  one  fleeting  glimpse  over  the  edge  of  her  nar- 
row prison-house  of  self-centered  interest.  Surrounded  by 
a  great  many  strapped  and  buckled  pieces  of  baggage,  with 
Helene,  fascinatingly  ugly  in  her  serf's  uniform,  holding 
the  black  leather  bag  containing  Aunt  Victoria's  jewels,  they 
passed  along  the  street  for  the  last  time,  under  the  great 
elms  already  almost  wintry  with  their  bare  boughs.     Now 


Much  Ado  ...  363 

that  it  was  too  late,  Sylvia  felt  a  momentary  curiosity 
about  the  unseen  humanity  which  had  been  so  near  her 
all  the  summer.  She  looked  out  curiously  at  the  shabby 
vehicles  (it  seemed  to  her  that  there  were  more  of  them  than 
in  the  height  of  the  season),  at  the  straight-standing,  plainly 
dressed,  briskly  walking  women  and  children  (there  seemed 
to  be  a  new  air  of  life  and  animation  about  the  street  now 
that  most  of  the  summer  cottages  were  empty),  and  at  the 
lounging,  indifferent,  powerfully  built  men.  She  wondered, 
for  a  moment,  what  they  were  like,  with  what  fortitude  their 
eager  human  hearts  bore  the  annual  display  of  splendor  they 
might  never  share.  They  looked,  in  that  last  glimpse,  some- 
how quite  strong,  as  though  they  would  care  less  than  she 
would  in  their  places.  Perhaps  they  were  only  hostile,  not 
envious. 

"  I  dare  say/'  said  Aunt  Victoria,  glancing  out  at  a  buck- 
board,  very  muddy  as  to  wheels,  crowded  with  children, 
"  that  it's  very  forlorn  for  the  natives  to  have  the  life  all 
go  out  of  the  village  when  the  summer  people  leave.  They 
must  feel  desolate  enough !  " 

Sylvia  wondered. 

The  last  thing  she  saw  as  the  train  left  the  valley  was  the 
upland  pass  between  Windward  and  Hemlock  mountains. 
It  brought  up  to  her  the  taste  of  black  birch,  the  formidably 
clean  smell  of  yellow  soap,  and  the  rush  of  summer  wind 
oast  her  ears. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

» WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED  .  .  ." 

They  were  to  sail  on  the  23d,  and  ever  since  the  big 
square  invitation  had  come  it  had  been  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion, conceded  with  no  need  for  wounding  words,  that  there 
was  no  way  out  of  attending  the  Sommerville-Morrison  wed- 
ding on  the  2 1  st.  They  kept,  of  course,  no  constrained 
silence  about  it.  Aunt  Victoria  detested  the  awkwardness 
of  not  mentioning  difficult  subjects  as  heartily  as  she  did 
the  mention  of  them;  and  as  the  tree  toad  evolves  a  skin 
to  answer  his  needs,  she  had  evolved  a  method  all  her  own 
of  turning  her  back  squarely  on  both  horns  of  a  dilemma, 
No,  there  was  no  silence  about  the  wedding,  only  about  the 
possibility  that  it  might  be  an  ordeal,  or  that  the  ordeal 
might  be  avoided.  It  could  not  be  avoided.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  said  on  that  point.  But  there  was  much  talkf 
during  the  few  days  of  their  stay  in  New  York,  about  the 
elaborate  preparations  for  the  ceremony.  Morrison,  who* 
came  to  see  them  in  their  temporary  quarters,  kept  up  a  some* 
what  satirical  report  as  to  the  magnificence  of  the  perform- 
ance, and  on  the  one  occasion  when  they  went  to  see  Molly 
they  found  her  flushed,  excited,  utterly  inconsecutive,  dis- 
tracted by  a  million  details,  and  accepting  the  situation  as 
the  normal  one  for  a  bride-to-be.  There  were  heart-search- 
ings  as  to  toilets  to  match  the  grandeur  of  the  occasion ;  and 
later  satisfaction  with  the  moss-green  chiffon  for  Sylvia  and 
violet-colored  velvet  for  her  aunt.  There  were  consultations 
about  the  present  Aunt  Victoria  was  to  send  from  them  both, 
a  wonderfully  expensive,  newly  patented,  leather  traveling- 
case  for  a  car,  guaranteed  to  hold  less  to  the  square  inch  and 
pound  than  any  other  similar,  heavy,  gold-mounted  con- 
trivance.    Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  told  Morrison  frankly,  in 

364 


"  Whom  God  Hath  Joined  .  .  ."        365 

this  connection,  that  she  had  tried  to  select  a  present  which 
Molly  herself  would  enjoy. 

"Am  I  not  to  have  a  present  myself?"  asked  Morrison. 
"  Something  that  you  selected  expressly  for  me  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Sylvia,  dropping  the  sugar  into  his  tea  with 
deliberation.  "  You  are  not  to  have  any  present  for  your- 
self." 

She  was  guiltily  conscious  that  she  was  thinking  of  a 
certain  scene  in  "  The  Golden  Bowl,"  a  scene  in  which  a 
wedding  present  figures  largely ;  and  when,  a  moment  later, 
he  said,  "  I  have  a  new  volume  of  Henry  James  I'd  like 
to  loan  you,"  she  knew  that  the  same  scene  had  been  in  his 
head.  She  would  not  look  at  him  lest  she  read  in  his  eyes 
that  he  had  meant  her  to  know.  As  she  frequently  did  in 
those  days,  she  rose,  and  making  an  excuse  of  a  walk  in 
the  park,  took  herself  off. 

She  was  quite  calm  during  this  period,  her  mind  full  of 
trivial  things.  She  had  the  firm  conviction  that  she  was 
living  in  a  dream,  that  nothing  of  what  was  happening  was 
irrevocable.  And  besides,  as  at  Lydford,  for  much  of  the 
day,  she  was  absorbed  in  the  material  details  of  her  life, 
being  rubbed  and  dressed  and  undressed,  and  adorned  and 
fed  and  catered  to.  They  were  spending  the  few  days  be- 
fore sailing  in  a  very  grand  hotel,  overlooking  Central  Park. 
Sylvia  had  almost  every  day  the  thought  that  she  herself 
was  now  in  the  center  of  exactly  the  same  picture  in  which, 
as  a  child,  she  had  enviously  watched  Aunt  Victoria.  She 
adored  every  detail  of  it.  It  was  an  opening-out,  even  from 
the  Lydford  life.  She  felt  herself  expanding  like  a  dried 
sponge  placed  in  water,  to  fill  every  crack  and  crevice  of 
the  luxurious  habits  of  life.  The  traveling  along  that  road 
is  always  swift ;  and  Sylvia's  feet  were  never  slow.  During 
the  first  days  in  Vermont,  it  had  seemed  a  magnificence  to 
her  that  she  need  never  think  of  dish-washing  or  bed- 
making.  By  this  time  it  seemed  quite  natural  to  her  that 
Helene  drew  and  tempered  the  water  for  her  bath,  and  put 
on  her  stockings.  Occasionally  she  noticed  with  a  little  sur- 
prise that  she  seemed  to  have  no  more  free  time  than  in  the 


366  The  Bent  Twig 

laborious  life  of  La  Chance ;  but  for  the  most  part  she  threw 
out,  in  all  haste,  innumerable  greedy  root-tendrils  into  the 
surcharged  richness  of  her  new  soil  and  sent  up  a  rank 
growth  of  easeful  acquiescence  in  redundance. 

The  wedding  was  quite  as  grand  as  the  Sommervilles  had 
tried  to  make  it.  The  street  was  crowded  with  staring,  curi- 
ous, uninvited  people  on  either  side  of  the  church,  and 
when  the  carriage  containing  the  bride  drove  up,  the  surge 
forward  to  see  her  was  as  fierce  as  though  she  had  been 
a  defaulting  bank-president  being  taken  to  prison.  The  police 
had  to  intervene.  The  interior,  fern  and  orchid  swathed, 
very  dimly  lighted  by  rich  purple  stained  glass  and  aristo- 
cratic dripping  wax  candles  instead  of  the  more  convenient 
electric  imitations,  was  murmurous  with  the  wonderful 
throbbing  notes  of  a  great  organ  and  with  the  discreet  low 
tones  of  the  invited  guests  as  they  speculated  about  the 
relative  ages  and  fortunes  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom.  The 
chancel  was  filled  with  a  vested  choir  which,  singing  and 
carrying  a  cross,  advanced  down  the  aisle  to  meet  the 
bridal  party.  Molly,  who  had  not  been  in  a  church  since 
her  childhood,  had  needed  to  be  coached  over  and  over 
again  in  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  complicated  service. 

Sylvia,  seated  several  guests  away  from  the  aisle,  saw 
little  of  the  procession  as  it  went  up  into  the  chancel.  She 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  misty  mass  of  white  and,  beside  it,  old 
Mr.  Sommerville's  profile,  very  white  and  nervous  and  de- 
termined. She  did  not  at  that  time  see  the  bridegroom  at 
all.  The  ceremony,  which  took  place  far  within  the  chancel, 
was  long  and  interspersed  with  music  from  the  choir. 
Sylvia,  feeling  very  queer  and  callous,  as  though,  under  an 
anaesthetic,  she  were  watching  with  entire  unconcern  the 
amputation  of  one  of  her  limbs,  fell  to  observing  the  people 
about  her.  The  woman  in  front  of  her  leaned  against  the 
pew  and  brought  her  broad,  well-fed  back  close  under 
Sylvia's  eyes.  It  was  covered  with  as  many  layers  as  a 
worm  in  a  cocoon.  There  were  beads  on  lace,  the  lace  in- 
crusted  on  other  lace,  chiffon,  fish-net,  a  dimly  seen  filmy 
satin,  cut  in  points,  and,  lower  down,  an  invisible  founda- 


"  Whom  God  Hath  Joined  .  .  ."        367 

tion  of  taffeta.  Through  the  interstices  there  gleamed  a 
revelation  of  the  back  itself,  fat,  white,  again  like  a  worm  in 
a  cocoon. 

Sylvia  began  to  plan  out  a  comparison  of  dress  with 
architecture,  bringing  out  the  insistent  tendency  in  both  to 
the  rococo,  to  the  burying  of  structural  lines  in  ornamen- 
tation. The  cuff,  for  instance,  originally  intended  to  pro- 
tect the  skin  from  contact  with  unwashable  fabrics,  de- 
generated into  a  mere  bit  of  "  trimming,"  which  has  lost 
all  its  meaning,  which  may  be  set  anywhere  on  the  sleeve. 
Like  a  strong  hand  about  her  throat  came  the  knowledge 
that  she  was  planning  to  say  all  this  to  please  Felix  Morri- 
son, who  was  now  within  fifty  feet  of  her,  being  married 
to  another  woman. 

She  flamed  to  fever  and  chilled  again  to  her  queer  absence 
of  spirit.  .  .  .  There  was  a  chorister  at  the  end  of  the  line 
near  her,  a  pale  young  man  with  a  spiritual  face  who 
chanted  his  part  with  shining  rapt  eyes.  While  he  sang  he 
slipped  his  hand  under  his  white  surplice  and  took  out  his 
watch.  Still  singing  "  Glory  be  to  the  Father,  the  Son,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost,"  he  cast  a  hasty  eye  on  the  watch  and 
frowned  impatiently.  He  was  evidently  afraid  the  business 
in  hand  would  drag  along  and  make  him  late  to  another 
appointment,  " is  now  and  ever  shall  be,  world  with- 
out end.  Amen !  "  he  sang  fervently.  Sylvia  repressed  an 
hysterical  desire  to  laugh. 

The  ceremony  was  over;  the  air  in  the  building  beat 
wildly  against  the  walls,  the  stained-glass  windows,  and 
the  ears  of  the  worshipers  in  the  excited  tumult  of  the 
wedding-march;  the  procession  began  to  leave  the  chancel. 
This  time  Sylvia  caught  one  clear  glimpse  of  the  prin- 
cipals, but  it  meant  nothing  to  her.  They  looked  like  wax 
effigies  of  themselves,  self-conscious,  posed,  emptied  of  their 
personalities  by  the  noise,  the  crowds,  the  congestion  of 
ceremony.  The  idea  occurred  to  Sylvia  that  they  looked 
as  though  they  had  taken  in  as  little  as  she  the  signifi- 
cance of  what  had  happened.  The  people  about  her 
were  moving  in  relieved   restlessness  after  the  long  im- 


368  The  Bent  Twig 

mobility  of  the  wedding.  The  woman  next  her  went  down 
on  her  knees  for  a  devout  period,  her  face  in  her  white 
gloves.  When  she  rose,  she  said  earnestly  to  her  com- 
panion, "  Do  you  know  if  I  had  to  choose  one  hat-trimming 
for  all  the  rest  of  my  life,  I  should  make  it  small  pink  roses 
in  clusters.  It's  perfectly  miraculous  how,  with  black  chif- 
fon, they  never  go  out ! "  She  settled  in  place  the  great 
cluster  of  costly  violets  at  her  breast  which  she  seemed  to 
have  exuded  like  some  natural  secretion  of  her  plump  and 
expensive  person.  "  Why  don't  they  let  us  out ! "  she  said 
eomplainingly. 

A  young  man,  one  of  those  born  to  be  a  wedding  usher, 
now  came  swiftly  up  the  aisle  on  patent  leather  feet  and 
untied  with  pearl-gray  ringers  the  great  white  satin  ribbon 
which  restrained  them  in  the  pew.  Sylvia  caught  her  aunt's 
eye  on  her,  its  anxiety  rather  less  well  hidden  than  usual. 
With  no  effort  at  all  the  girl  achieved  a  flashing  smile.  It 
was  not  hard.  She  felt  quite  numb.  She  had  been  present 
only  during  one  or  two  painful,  quickly  passed  moments. 

But  the  reception  at  the  house,  the  big,  old-fashioned,  very 
rich  Sommerville  house,  was  more  of  an  ordeal.  There 
was  the  sight  of  the  bride  and  groom  in  the  receiving-line, 
now  no  longer  tndly  executed  graven  images,  but  quite, 
themselves — Molly  starry-eyed,  triumphant,  astonishingly 
beautiful,  her  husband  distinguished,  ugly,  self-possessed,, 
easily  the  most  interesting  personality  in  the  room;  there 
was  the  difficult  moment  of  the  presentation,  the  handclasp 
with  Felix,  the  rapturous  vague  kiss  from  Molly,  evidently 
too  uplifted  to  have  any  idea  as  to  the  individualities  of  the 
people  defiling  before  her;  then  the  passing  on  into  the 
throng,  the  eating  and  drinking  and  talking  with  acquaint- 
ances from  the  Lydford  summer  colony,  of  whom  there 
were  naturally  a  large  assortment.  Sylvia  had  a  growing 
sense  of  pain,  which  was  becoming  acute  when  across  the 
room  she  saw  Molly,  in  a  lull  of  arrivals,  look  up  to  her 
husband  and  receive  from  him  a  smiling,  intimate  look  of 
possession.    Why,  they  were  married!    It  was  done ! 

The  delicate  food  in  Sylvia's  mouth  turned  to  ashes. 


"  Whom  God  Hath  Joined  .  .  ."        369 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  voice,  almost  fluttered,  almost 
(for  her)  excited,  came  to  her  ears:  "  Sylvia — here  is  Mr. 
Page!  And  he's  just  told  me  the  most  delightful  news, 
that  he's  decided  to  run  over  to  Paris  for  a  time  this  fall." 

"  I  hope  Miss  Marshall  will  think  that  Paris  will  be  big 
enough  for  all  of  us?"  asked  Austin  Page,  fixing  his  re- 
markably clear  eyes  on  the  girl. 

She  made  a  great  effort  for  self-possession.  She  turned 
her  back  on  the  receiving-line.  She  held  out  her  hand 
cordially.  "  I  hope  Paris  will  be  quite,  quite  small,  so  that 
we  shall  all  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other,"  she  said  warmly. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
SYLVIA  TELLS  THE  TRUTH 

They  left  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  with  a  book,  seated  on  a 
little  yellow-painted  iron  chair,  the  fifteen-centime  kind,  at 
the  top  of  the  great  flight  of  steps  leading  down  to  the  wide 
green  expanse  of  the  Tapis  Vert.  She  was  alternately 
reading  Huysmans'  highly  imaginative  ideas  on  Gothic 
cathedrals,  and  letting  her  eyes  stray  up  and  down  the  long 
facade  of  the  great  Louis.  Her  powers  of  aesthetic  assimila- 
tion seemed  to  be  proof  against  this  extraordinary  mixture 
of  impressions.  She  had  insisted  that  she  would  be  entirely 
happy  there  in  the  sun,  for  an  hour  at  least,  especially  if 
she  were  left  in  solitude  with  her  book.  On  which  intima- 
tion Sylvia  and  Page  had  strolled  off  to  do  some  exploring. 
It  was  a  situation  which  a  month  of  similar  arrangements 
had  made  very  familiar  to  them. 

"  No,  I  don't  know  Versailles  very  well,"  he  said  in  an- 
swer to  her  question,  "  but  I  believe  the  gardens  back  of  the 
Grand  and  Petit  Trianon  are  more  interesting  than  these 
near  the  Chateau  itself.  The  conscientiousness  with  which 
they're  kept  up  is  not  quite  so  formidable." 

So  they  walked  down  the  side  of  the  Grand  Canal,  ad- 
miring the  rather  pensive  beauty  of  the  late  November 
woods,  and  talking,  as  was  the  proper  thing,  about  the  great 
Louis  and  his  court,  and  how  they  both  detested  his  style 
of  gilded,  carved  wall  ornamentation,  although  his  chairs 
weren't  as  bad  as  some  others.  They  turned  off  at  the 
cross-arm  of  the  Canal  towards  the  Great  Trianon;  they 
talked,  again  dutifully  in  the  spirit  of  the  place,  about 
Madame  de  Maintenon.  They  differed  on  this  subject  just 
enough  to  enjoy  discussing  it.  Page  averred  that  the  whole 
affair  had  always  passed  his  comprehension,  " — what  that 

370 


Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth  371 

ease-loving,  vain,  indulgent,  trivial-minded  grandson  of 
Henri  Quatre  could  ever  have  seen  for  all  those  years  in 
that  stiff,  prim,  cold  old  school-ma'am " 

But  Sylvia  shook  her  head.  "  I  know  how  he  felt.  He 
had  to  have  her,  once  he'd  found  her.  She  was  the  only 
person  in  all  his  world  he  could  depend  on." 

"  Why  not  depend  on  himself  ?  "  Page  asked. 

"  Oh,  he  couldn't !  He  couldn't !  She  had  character  and 
he  hadn't." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  character  ?  "  he  challenged  her. 

"  It's  what  I  haven't !  "  she  said. 

He  attempted  a  chivalrous  exculpation.  "  Oh,  if  you 
mean  by  character  such  hard,  insensitive  lack  of  imagination 
as  Madame  de  Maintenon's " 

"  No,  not  that,"  said  Sylvia.  "  You  know  what  I  mean  by 
character  as  well  as  I." 

By  the  time  they  were  back  of  the  Little  Trianon,  this 
beginning  had  led  them  naturally  enough  away  from  the 
frivolities  of  historical  conversation  to  serious  considera- 
tions, namely  themselves.  The  start  had  been  a  reminiscence 
of  Sylvia's,  induced  by  the  slow  fall  of  golden  leaves  from 
the  last  of  the  birches  into  the  still  water  of  the  lake  in 
the  midst  of  Marie  Antoinette's  hamlet.  They  stopped  on 
an  outrageously  rustic  bridge,  constructed  quite  in  the  arti- 
ficially rural  style  of  the  place,  and,  leaning  on  the  railing, 
watched  in  a  fascinated  silence  the  quiet,  eddying  descent 
of  the  leaves.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind.  The  leaves 
detached  themselves  from  the  tree  with  no  wrench.  They 
loosened  their  hold  gradually,  gradually,  and  finally  out  of 
sheer  fullness  of  maturity  floated  down  to  their  graves  with 
a  dreamy  content. 

"  I  never  happened  to  see  that  effect  before,"  said  Page. 
"  I  supposed  leaves  were  detached  only  by  wind.  It's  aston- 
ishingly peaceful,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  saw  it  once  before,"  said  Sylvia,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
noiseless  arabesques  traced  by  the  leaves  in  their  fall — "  at 
home  in  La  Chance.  I'll  never  forget  it."  She  spoke  in  a 
low  tone  as  though  not  to  break  the  charmed  silence  about 


372  The  Bent  Twig 

them,  and,  upon  his  asking  her  for  the  incident,  she  went  on, 
almost  in  a  murmur :  "  It  isn't  a  story  you  could  possibly 
understand.  You've  never  been  poor.  But  I'll  tell  you  if 
you  like.  I've  talked  to  you  such  a  lot  about  home  and  the 
queer  people  we  know — did  I  ever  mention  Cousin  Par- 
nelia?  She's  a  distant  cousin  of  my  mother's,  a  queer 
woman  who  lost  her  husband  and  three  children  in  a  train- 
wreck  years  ago,  and  has  been  a  little  bit  crazy  ever  since. 
She  has  always  worn,  for  instance,  exactly  the  same  kind  of 
clothes,  hat  and  everything,  that  she  had  on,  the  day  the 
news  was  brought  to  her.  The  Spiritualists  got  hold  of  her 
then,  and  she's  been  one  herself  for  ever  so  long — table- 
rapping — planchette-writing — all  the  horrid  rest  of  it,  and 
she  makes  a  little  money  by  being  a  "  medium  "  for  igno- 
rant people.  But  she  hardly  earns  enough  that  way  to  keep 
her  from  starving,  and  Mother  has  for  ever  so  long  helped 
her  out. 

"  Well,  there  was  a  chance  to  buy  a  tiny  house  and  lot  for 
her — two  hundred  and  twenty  dollars.  It  was  just  a  two* 
roomed  cottage,  but  it  would  be  a  roof  over  her  head  a'; 
least.  She  is  getting  old  and  ought  to  have  something  to 
fall  back  on.  Mother  called  us  all  together  and  said  this 
would  be  a  way  to  help  provide  for  Cousin  Parnelia's  old 
age.  Father  never  could  bear  her  (he's  so  hard  on  ignorant, 
superstitious  people),  but  he  always  does  what  Mother 
thinks  best,  so  he  said  he'd  give  up  the  new  typewriter  he'd 
been  hoping  to  buy.  Mother  gave  up  her  chicken  money 
she'd  been  putting  by  for  some  new  rose-bushes,  and  she 
loves  her  roses  too !  Judith  gave  what  she'd  earned  pick- 
ing raspberries,  and  I — oh,  how  I  hated  to  do  it !  but  I  was 
ashamed  not  to — I  gave  what  Fd  saved  up  for  my  autumn 
suit.  Lawrence  just  stuck  it  out  that  he  hated  Cousin 
Parnelia  and  he  wouldn't  give  a  bit.  But  he  was  so  little 
that  he  only  had  thirty  cents  or  something  like  that  in  a  tin 
bank,  so  it  didn't  matter.  When  we  put  it  all  together  it 
wasn't  nearly  enough  of  course,  and  we  took  the  rest  out  of 
our  own  little  family  savings-bank  rainy-day  savings  and 
bought  the  tiny  house  and  lot.    Father  wanted  to  '  surprise ' 


Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth  373 

Cousin  Parnelia  with  the  deed.  He  wanted  to  lay  it  under 
some  flowers  in  a  basket,  or  slip  it  into  her  pocket,  or  send 
it  to  her  with  some  eggs  or  something.  But  Mother — it 
was  so  like  her! — the  first  time  Cousin  Parnelia  happened 
to  come  to  the  house,  Mother  picked  up  the  deed  from  her 
desk  and  said  offhand,  ■  Oh,  Parnelia,  we  bought  the  little 
Garens  house  for  you/  and  handed  her  the  paper,  and  went 
to  talking  about  cutworms  or  Bordeaux  mixture." 

Page  smiled,  appreciative  of  the  picture.  "  I  see  her.  I 
see  your  mother — Vermont  to  the  core." 

"  Well,  it  was  only  about  two  weeks  after  that,  I  was 
practising  and  Mother  was  rubbing  down  a  table  she  was 
fixing  over.  Nobody  else  happened  to  be  at  home.  Cousin 
Parnelia  came  in,  her  old  battered  black  straw  hat  on  one 
ear  as  usual.  She  was  all  stirred  up  and  pleased  about  a 
new  '  method '  of  using  planchette.  You  know  what 
planchette  is,  don't  you?  The  little  heart-shaped  piece  of 
wood  spiritualists  use,  with  a  pencil  fast  to  it,  to  take  down 
their  silly  '  messages.'  Some  spiritualistic  fake  was  visiting 
town  conducting  seances  and  he  claimed  he'd  discovered 
some  sort  of  method  for  inducing  greater  receptivity — or 
something  like  that.  I  don't  know  anything  about  spiritual- 
ism but  little  tags  I've  picked  up  from  hearing  Cousin 
Parnelia  talk.  Anyway,  he  was  '  teaching '  other  mediums 
for  a  big  price.  And  it  came  out  that  Cousin  Parnelia  had 
mortgaged  the  house  for  more  than  it  was  worth,  and  had 
used  the  money  to  take  those  '  lessons/  I  couldn't  believe 
it  for  a  minute.  When  I  really  understood  what  she'd 
done,  I  was  so  angry  I  felt  like  smashing  both  fists  down 
on  the  piano  keys  and  howling !  I  thought  of  my  blue  cor- 
duroy I'd  given' up — I  was  only  fourteen  and  just  crazy 
about  clothes.  Mother  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  scraping 
away  at  the  table-leg.  She  got  up,  laid  down  her  sandpaper, 
and  asked  Cousin  Parnelia  if  she'd  excuse  us  for  a  few 
minutes.  Then  she  took  me  by  the  hand,  as  though  I  was 
a  little  girl.  I  felt  like  one  too,  I  felt  almost  frightened  by 
Mother's  face,  and  we  both  marched  out  of  the  house.  She 
didn't  say  a  word.    She  took  me  down  to  our  swimming-hole 


374  The  Bent  Twig 

in  the  river.  There  is  a  big  maple-tree  leaning  over  that. 
It  was  a  perfectly  breathless  autumn  day  like  this,  and  the 
tree  was  shedding  its  leaves  like  that  birch,  just  gently, 
slowly,  steadily  letting  them  go  down  into  the  still  water. 
We  sat  down  on  the  bank  and  watched  them.  The  air  was 
full  of  them,  yet  all  so  quiet,  without  any  hurry.  The  water 
was  red  with  them,  they  floated  down  on  our  shoulders,  on 
our  heads,  in  our  laps — not  a  sound — so  peaceful — so  calm — 
so  perfect.    It  was  like  the  andante  of  the  Kreutzer. 

"  I  knew  what  Mother  wanted,  to  get  over  being  angry 
with  Cousin  Parnelia.  And  she  was.  I  could  see  it  in  her 
face,  like  somebody  in  church.  I  felt  it  myself — all  over,  like 
an  E  string  that's  been  pulled  too  high,  slipping  down  into 
tune  when  you  turn  the  peg.  But  I  didn't  want  to  feel  it.  I 
wanted  to  hate  Cousin  Parnelia.  I  thought  it  was  awfully 
hard  in  Mother  not  to  want  us  to  have  even  the  satisfaction 
of  hating  Cousin  Parnelia!  I  tried  to  go  on  doing  it.  I 
remember  I  cried  a  little.  But  Mother  never  said  a  word — 
just  sat  there  in  that  quiet  autumn  sunshine,  watching  the 
leaves  falling — falling — and  I  had  to  do  as  she  did.  And 
by  and  by  I  felt,  just  as  she  did,  that  Cousin  Parnelia  was 
only  a  very  small  part  of  something  very  big. 

"  When  we  went  in,  Mother's  face  was  just  as  it  always 
was,  and  we  got  Cousin  Parnelia  a  cup  of  tea  and  gave  her 
part  of  a  boiled  ham  to  take  home  and  a  dozen  eggs  and 
a  loaf  of  graham  bread,  just  as  though  nothing  had  hap- 
pened." 

She  stopped  speaking.  There  was  no  sound  at  all  but  the 
delicate,  forlorn  whisper  of  the  leaves. 

"  That  is  a  very  fine  story !  "  said  Page  finally.  He  spoke 
with  a  measured,  emphatic,  almost  solemn  accent. 

"Yes,  it's  a  very  fine  story,"  murmured  Sylvia  a  little 
wistfully.  "  It's  finer  as  a  story  than  it  was  as  real  life.  It 
was  years  before  I  could  look  at  blue  corduroy  without  feel- 
ing stirred  up.  I  really  cared  more  about  my  clothes  than  I 
did  about  that  stupid,  ignorant  old  woman.  If  it's  only  a 
cheerful  giver  the  Lord  loves,  He  didn't  feel  much  affection 
for  me." 


Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth  375 

They  began  to  retrace  their  steps.  "  You  gave  up  the  blue 
corduroy,"  he  commented  as  they  walked  on,  "  and  you 
didn't  scold  your  silly  old  kinswoman." 

"  That's  only  because  Mother  hypnotized  me.  She  has 
character.  I  did  it  as  Louis  signed  the  revocation  of  the 
Edict  of  Nantes,  because  Madame  de  Maintenon  thought 
he  ought  to." 

"  But  she  couldn't  hypnotize  your  brother  Lawrence,  al- 
thought  he  was  so  much  younger.  He  didn't  give  up  his 
thirty-seven  cents.  I  think  you're  bragging  without  cause  if 
you  claim  any  engaging  and  picturesque  absence  of  char- 
acter." 

"  Oh,  Lawrence — he's  different !  He's  extraordinary ! 
Sometimes  I  think  he  is  a  genius.  And  it's  Judith  who 
hypnotizes  him.    She  supplies  his  character." 

They  emerged  into  an  opening  and  walked  in  silence  for 
some  moments  towards  the  Grand  Trianon. 

"  You're  lucky,  very  lucky,"  commented  Page,  "  to  have 
such  an  ample  supply  of  character  in  the  family.  I'm  an 
only  child.  There's  nobody  to  give  me  the  necessary  hypo- 
dermic supply  of  it  at  the  crucial  moments."  He  went  on, 
turning  his  head  to  look  at  the  Great  Trianon,  very  mel- 
low in  the  sunshine.  "  It's  my  belief,  however,  that 
at  the  crucial  moments  you  have  plenty  of  it  of  your 
own." 

"  That's  a  safe  guess !  "  said  Sylvia  ironically,  "  since  there 
never  have  been  any  crucial  moments  in  a  life  so  uninter- 
estingly eventless  as  mine.  I  wonder  what  I  would  do," 
she  mused.  "  My  own  conviction  is  that — suppose  I'd 
lived  in  the  days  of  the  Reformation — in  the  days  of  Christ 
— in  the  early  Abolition  days "  She  had  an  instant  cer- 
tainty :  "  Oh,  I  have  been  entirely  on  the  side  of  whatever 
was  smooth,  and  elegant,  and  had  amenity — I'd  have  hated 
the  righteous  side !  " 

Page  did  not  look  very  deeply  moved  by  this  revelation 
of  depravity.  Indeed,  he  smiled  rather  amusedly  at  her, 
and  changed  the  subject.  "  You  said  a  moment  ago  that  I 
couldn't  understand,  because  I'd  always  had  money.    Isn't 


376  The  Bent  Twig 

it  a  bit  paradoxical  to  say  that  the  people  who  haven't  a 
thing  are  the  only  ones  who  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"  But  you  couldn't  realize  what  losing  the  money  meant 
to  us.  You  can't  know  what  the  absence  of  money  can  do 
to  a  life." 

"  I  can  know,"  said  Page,  "  what  the  presence  of  it  can- 
not do  for  a  life."  His  accent  implied  rather  sadly  that  the 
omissions  were  considerable. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  of  course,"  Sylvia  agreed.  "  There's  any 
amount  it  can't  do.  After  you  have  it,  you  must  get  the 
other  things  too." 

He  brought  his  eyes  down  to  her  from  a  roving  quest* 
among  the  tops  of  the  trees.  "  It  seems  to  me  you  want  a 
great  deal,"  he  said  quizzically. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  she  admitted.  "But  I  don't  see  that  you 
have  any  call  to  object  to  my  wanting  it.  You  don't  have 
to  wish  for  everything  at  once.    You  have  it  already." 

He  received  this  into  one  of  his  thoughtful  silences,  but 
presently  it  brought  him  to  a  standstill.  They  were  within 
sight  of  the  Grand  Canal  again,  looking  down  from  the 
terrace  of  the  Trianon.  He  leaned  against  the  marble 
balustrade  and  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets.  His 
clear  eyes  were  clouded.  He  looked  profoundly  grave.  "  I 
am  thirty-two  years  old,"  he  said,  "  and  never  for  a  moment 
of  that  time  have  I  made  any  sense  out  of  my  position  in 
life.    If  you  call  that  '  having  everything ' " 

It  occurred  to  Sylvia  fleetingly  that  she  had  never  made 
any  sense  out  of  her  position  in  life  either,  and  had  been 
obliged  to  do  a  great  many  disagreeable  things  into  the  bar- 
gain, but  she  kept  this  thought  to  herself,  and  looked  con- 
spicuously what  she  genuinely  felt,  a  sympathetic  interest. 
The  note  of  plain  direct  sincerity  which  was  Page's  hall- 
mark never  failed  to  arrest  her  attention,  a  little  to  arouse 
her  wonder,  and  occasionally,  for  a  reason  that  she  did  not 
like  to  dwell  upon,  somewhat  to  abash  her.  The  reason  was 
that  he  never  spoke  for  effect,  and  she  often  did.  He  was 
not  speaking  for  effect  now :  he  seemed  scarcely  even  to  be 
speaking  to  her,  rather  to  be  musingly  formulating  some- 


Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth  377 

thing  for  his  own  enlightenment.  He  went  on.  "  The  fact 
is  that  there  is  no  sense  to  be  made  out  of  my  situation  in 
life.    I  am  like  a  man  with  a  fine  voice,  who  has  no  ear." 

He  showed  surprise  that  Sylvia  failed  to  follow  this,  and 
explained.  "  I  mean  the  voice  is  no  good  to  that  kind  of  a 
man,  it's  no  good  to  anybody.  It's  the  craziest,  accidental 
affair  anyhow,  haven't  you  ever  noticed  it  ? — who  draws  the 
fine  voices.  Half  the  time — more  than  half  the  time,  most 
of  the  time  it  seems  to  me  when  I've  been  recently  to  a  lot 
of  concerts,  the  people  who  have  the  voices  haven't  any  other 
qualifications  for  being  singers.  And  it's  so  with  coal- 
mines, with  everything  else  that's  inherited.  For  five  years 
now  I've  given  up  what  I'd  like  to  do,  and  I've  tried,  under 
the  best  maestri  I  could  find,  to  make  something  out  of  my 
voice,  so  to  speak.  And  it's  no  go.  It's  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  I  can't  make  a  go  of  it.  Over  everything  I 
do  lies  the  taint  that  I'm  the  '  owner  ' !  They  are  suspicious 
of  me,  always  will  be — and  rightly  so.  Anybody  else  not 
connected  with  the  mediaeval  idea  of  '  possession '  could  do 
better  than  I.  The  whole  relation's  artificial.  I'm  in  it  for 
the  preposterous  reason  that  my  father,  operating  on  Wall 
Street,  made  a  lucky  guess, — as  though  I  should  be  called 
upon  to  run  a  locomotive  because  my  middle  initial  is  L ! " 

Sylvia  still  felt  the  same  slight  sense  of  flatness  when  this 
recurring  topic  thrust  itself  into  a  personal  talk ;  but  during 
the  last  month  she  had  adjusted  herself  to  Page  so  that  this 
no  longer  showed  on  the  surface.  She  was  indeed  quite 
capable  of  taking  an  interest  in  the  subject,  as  soon  as  she 
could  modulate  herself  into  the  new  key.  "  Yes,  of  course," 
she  agreed,  "  it's  like  so  many  other  things  that  are  perfectly 
necessary  to  go  on  with,  perfectly  absurd  when  you  look 
closely  at  them.  My  father  nearly  lost  his  position  once  for 
saying  that  all  inheritance  was  wrong.  But  even  he  never 
had  the  slightest  suggestion  as  to  what  to  do  about  it,  how 
to  get  an  inheritance  into  the  hands  of  the  people  who  might 
make  the  best  use  of  it."  She  was  used  from  her  childhood 
to  this  sort  of  academic  doubt  of  everything,  conducted  side 
by  side  with  a  practical  acceptance  of  everything.    Professor 


378  The  Bent  Twig 

and  Madame  Li*  Rue,  in  actual  life  devotedly  faithful  mar- 
ried lovers,  staid,  stout,  habit-ridden  elderly  people,  pro- 
fessed a  theoretical  belief  in  the  flexibility  of  relationships 
sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  free  love.  It  was  perhaps  with 
this  recollection  in  her  mind  that  she  suggested,  "  Don't  you 
suppose  it  will  be  like  the  institution  of  marriage,  very,  very 
gradually  altered  till  it  fits  conditions  better?" 

"  In  the  meantime,  how  about  the  cases  of  those  who  are 
unhappily  married?" 

"  I  don't  see  anything  for  them  but  just  to  get  along  the 
best  they  can,"  she  told  him. 

"  You  think  I'd  better  give  up  trying  to  do  anything  with 
my  Colorado ?  "  he  asked  her,  as  though  genuinely  seek- 
ing advice. 

"  I  should  certainly  think  that  five  years  was  plenty  long 
enough  for  a  fair  trial!  You'd  make  a  better  ambassador 
than  an  active  captain  of  industry,  anyhow,"  she  said  with 
conviction.  Whereupon  he  bestowed  on  her  a  long,  thought- 
ful stare,  as  though  he  were  profoundly  pondering  her  sug- 
gestion. 

They  moved  forward  towards  the  Grand  Canal  in  silence. 
Privately  she  was  considering  his  case  hardly  one  of  extreme 
hardship.  Privately  also,  as  they  advanced  nearer  and 
nearer  the  spot  where  they  had  left  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith, 
she  was  a  little  dreading  the  return  to  the  perfect  breeding 
with  which  Aunt  Victoria  did  not  ask,  or  intimate,  or  look, 
the  question  which  was  in  her  mind  after  each  of  these 
strolling  tete-a-tetes  which  consistently  led  nowhere.  There 
were  instants  when  Sylvia  would  positively  have  preferred 
the  vulgar  openness  of  a  direct  question  to  which  she  might 
have  answered,  with  the  refreshing  effect  to  her  of  a  little 
honest  blood-letting :  "  Dear  Aunt  Victoria,  I  haven't  the 
least  idea  myself  what's  happening!  I'm  simply  letting 
myself  go  because  I  don't  see  anything  else  to  do.  I  have 
even  no  very  clear  idea  as  to  what  is  going  on  inside  my 
own  head.  I  only  know  that  I  like  Austin  Page  so  much 
(in  spite  of  a  certain  quite  unforgotten  episode)  there  would 
be  nothing  at  all  unpleasant  about  marrying  him;  but  I 


Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth  379 

also  know  that  I  didn't  feel  the  least  interest  in  him  until 
Helene  told  me  about  his  barrels  of  money:  I  also  know- 
that  I  feel  the  strongest  aversion  to  returning  to  the  Spartan 
life  of  La  Chance ;  and  it  occurs  to  me  that  these  two  things 
may  throw  considerable  light  on  my  '  liking '  for  Austin. 
As  for  what's  in  his  mind,  there  is  no  subject  on  which  I'm 
in  blacker  ignorance.  And  after  being  so  tremendously 
fooled,  in  the  case  of  Felix,  about  the  degree  of  interest  a 
man  was  feeling,  I  do  not  propose  to  take  anything  for 
granted  which  is  not  on  the  surface.  It  is  quite  possible  that 
this  singularly  sincere  and  simple-mannered  man  may  not 
have  the  slightest  intention  of  doing  anything  more  than 
enjoy  a  pleasant  vacation  from  certain  rather  hair-splitting 
cares  which  seem  to  trouble  him  from  time  to  time."  As 
they  walked  side  by  side  along  the  stagnant  waters,  she  was 
sending  inaudible  messages  of  this  sort  towards  her  aunt; 
she  had  even  selected  the  particular  mauve  speck  at  the 
top  of  the  steps  which  might  be  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith. 

In  the  glowing  yellow  gold  of  the  sky,  a  faintly  whirring 
dark-gray  spot  appeared :  an  airman  made  his  way  above  the 
Grand  Canal,  passed  above  the  Chateau,  and  disappeared. 
They  had  sat  down  on  a  bench,  the  better  to  crane  their 
heads  to  watch  him  out  of  sight.  Sylvia  was  penetrated 
with  the  strangeness  of  that  apparition  in  that  spot  and 
thrilled  out :  "  Isn't  it  wonderful !  Isn't  it  wonderful ! 
HereV 

"  There's  something  more  wonderful !  "  he  said,  indicating 
with  his  cane  the  canal  before  them,  where  a  group  of  neat, 
poorly  dressed,  lower  middle-class  people  looked  proudly 
out  from  their  triumphal  progress  in  the  ugly,  gasping  little 
motor-boat  which  operates  at  twenty-five  centimes  a  trip. 

She  had  not  walked  and  talked  a  month  with  him  for 
nothing.  She  knew  that  he  did  not  refer  to  motor-boats  as 
against  aeroplanes.  "  You  mean,"  she  said  appreciatively, 
"  you  mean  those  common  people  going  freely  around  the 
royal  canal  where  two  hundred  years  ago " 

He  nodded,  pleased  by  her  quickness.  "  Two  hundred 
years  from  now,"  he  conjectured,  "  the  stubs  of  my  check- 


380  The  Bent  Twig 

book  will  be  exhibited  in  an  historical  museum  along  with 
the  regalia  of  the  last  hereditary  monarch." 

Here  she  did  not  follow,  and  she  was  too  intelligent  to 
pretend  she  did. 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows.  "  Relic  of  a  quaint  old  social 
structure  inexplicably  tolerated  so  late  as  the  beginning  of 
the  twentieth  century." 

"  Oh,  coal-mines  forever !  "  she  said,  smiling,  her  eyes 
brilliant  with  friendly  mockery. 

"Aye!  Tou jours  perdrix!"  he  admitted.  He  continued 
to  look  steadily  and  seriously  into  her  smiling,  sparkling 
face,  until,  with  a  sudden  pulse  of  premonition,  she  was 
stricken  into  a  frightened  gravity.  And  then,  with  no  pre- 
lude, no  approach,  quite  simply  and  directly,  he  spoke.  "  I 
wonder  how  much  you  care  for  me  ?  "  he  said  musingly,  as 
he  had  said  everything  else  that  afternoon :  and  as  she 
positively  paled  at  the  eeriness  of  this  echo  from  her  own 
thought,  he  went  on,  his  voice  vibrating  in  the  deep  organ 
note  of  a  great  moment,  "  You  must  know,  of  course,  by  this 
time  that  I  care  everything  possible  for  you." 

Compressed  into  an  instant  of  acute  feeling  Sylvia  felt  the 
pangs  which  had  racked  her  as  a  little  girl  when  she  had 
stood  in  the  schoolyard  with  Camilla  Fingal  before  her,  and 
the  terrifying  hostile  eyes  about  her.  Her  two  selves  rose 
up  against  each  other  fiercely,  murderously,  as  they  had 
then.  The  little  girl  sprang  forward  to  help  the  woman  who 
for  an  instant  hesitated.  The  fever  and  the  struggle  van- 
ished as  instantly  as  they  had  come.  Sylvia  felt  very  still, 
very  hushed.  Page  had  told  her  that  she  always  rose  to 
crucial  moments.  She  rose  to  this  one.  "  I  don't  know," 
she  said  as  quietly  as  he,  with  as  utter  a  bravery  of  bare  sin- 
cerity, "  I  don't  know  how  much  I  care  for  you — but  I  think 
it  is  a  great  deal."  She  rose  upon  a  solemn  wing  of  courage 
to  a  greater  height  of  honesty.  Her  eyes  were  on  his,  as 
clear  as  his.  The  mere  beauty  of  her  face  had  gone  like  a 
lifted  veil.  For  a  instant  he  saw  her  as  Sylvia  herself  did 
not  dream  she  could  be.  "  It  is  very  hard,"  said  Sylvia 
Marshall,  with  clear  eyes  and  trembling  lips  of  honest  hu^ 


Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth  381 

mility,  "  for  a  girl  with  no  money  to  know  how  much  she 
cares  for  a  very  rich  man." 

She  had  never  been  able  to  imagine  what  she  would  say 
if  the  moment  should  come.  She  had  certainly  not  intended 
to  say  this.  But  an  unsuspected  vein  of  granite  in  her  rang 
an  instant  echo  to  his  truth.  She  was  bewildered  to  see  his 
ardent  gaze  upon  her  deepen  to  reverence.  He  took  her 
hand  in  his  and  kissed  it.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  his  voice 
broke. 

She  was  immensely  moved  to  see  him  so  moved.  She  was 
also  entirely  at  a  loss.  How  strangely  different  things  al- 
ways were  from  forecasts  of  them!  They  had  suddenly 
taken  the  long-expected  stride  away  from  their  former 
relation,  but  she  did  not  know  where  they  had  arrived. 
What  was  the  new  status  between  them  ?  What  did  Austin 
think  she  meant?  It  came  to  her  with  a  shock  that  the 
new  status  between  them  was,  on  the  surface,  exactly  what 
it  was  in  reality ;  that  the  avowed  relation  between  them  was, 
as  far  as  it  went,  precisely  in  accord  with  the  facts  of  the 
case.  The  utter  strangeness  of  this  in  any  human  relation- 
ship filled  her  with  astonishment,  with  awe,  almost  with 
uneasiness.  It  seemed  unnatural  not  to  have  to  pretend 
anything ! 

Apparently  it  did  not  seem  unnatural  to  the  man  beside 
her.  "  You  are  a  very  wonderful  woman,"  he  now  said,  his 
voice  still  but  partly  under  his  control.  "  I  had  not  thought 
that  you  could  exist."  He  took  her  hand  again  and  con- 
tinued more  steadily :  "  Will  you  let  me,  for  a  little  while 
longer,  go  on  living  near  you?  Perhaps  things  may  seem 
clearer  to  us  both,  later " 

Sylvia  was  swept  by  a  wave  of  gratitude  as  for  some  act 
of  magnanimity.  "  You  are  the  wonderful  one !  "  she  cried. 
Not  since  the  day  Helene  had  told  her  who  he  was,  had  she 
felt  so  whole,  so  sound,  so  clean,  as  now.  The  word  came 
rushing  on  the  heels  of  the  thought :  "  You  make  one  feel  so 
clean! "  she  said,  unaware  that  he  could  scarcely  understand 
her,  and  then  she  smiled,  passing  with  her  free,  natural 
grace  from  the  memorable  pause,  and  the  concentration  of 


382  The  Bent  Twig 

a  great  moment  forward  into  the  even-stepping  advance  of 
life.  That  first  day — even  then  you  made  me  feel  clean — - 
that  soap !  that  cold,  clean  water — it  is  your  aroma !  " 

Their  walk  along  the  silent  water,  over  the  great  lawn, 
and  up  the  steps  was  golden  with  the  level  rays  of  the  sun 
setting  back  of  them,  at  the  end  of  the  canal,  between  the 
distant,  sentinel  poplars.  Their  mood  was  as  golden  as  the 
light.  Sometimes  they  spoke,  sometimes  they  were  silent* 
Truth  walked  between  them. 

Sylvia's  mind,  released  from  the  tension  of  that  great 
moment,  began  making  its  usual,  sweeping,  circling  explora- 
tions of  its  own  depths.  Not  all  that  it  found  was  of  an 
equal  good  report.  Once  she  thought  fleetingly :  "  This  is 
only  a  very,  very  pretty  way  of  saying  that  it  is  all  really 
settled.  With  his  great  wealth,  he  is  like  a  reigning  monarch 
— let  him  be  as  delicate-minded  as  he  pleases,  when  he  indi- 
cates a  wish "     More  than  once — many,  many  times — 

Felix  Morrison's  compelling  dark  eyes  looked  at  her  pene- 
tratingly, but  she  resolutely  turned  away  her  head  from 
them,  and  from  the  impulse  to  answer  their  reproach  even 
with  an  indignant,  well-founded  reproach  of  her  own. 
Again  and  again  she  felt  a  sweet  strangeness  in  her  new 
position.  The  aroma  of  utter  sincerity  was  like  the  scent  of 
a  wildflower  growing  in  the  sun,  spicy,  free.  She  wondered 
at  a  heart  like  his  that  could  be  at  once  ardent  and  subtle, 
that  could  desire  so  profoundly  (the  deep  vibrations  of  that 
voice  of  yearning  were  in  her  ears  still)  and  yet  pause,  and 
stand  back,  and  wait,  rather  than  force  a  hair's  breadth  of 
pretense.  How  he  had  liberated  her!  And  once  she  found 
herself  thinking,  "  I  shall  have  sables  myself,  and  diamonds, 
and  a  house  as  great  as  Molly's,  and  I  shall  learn  how  to 
entertain  ambassadors,  as  she  will  never  know."  She  was 
ashamed  of  this,  she  knew  it  to  be  shockingly  out  of  key  with 
the  grand  passage  behind  them.    But  she  had  thought  it. 

And,  as  these  thoughts,  and  many  more,  passed  through 
her  mind,  as  she  spoke  with  a  quiet  peace,  or  was  silent,  she 
was  transfigured  into  a  beauty  almost  startling,  by  the 
accident  of  the  level  golden  beams  of  light  back  of  her. 


Sylvia  Tells  the  Truth  383 

Ker  aureole  of  bright  hair  glowed  like  a  saint's  halo.  The 
curiously  placed  lights  and  unexpected  shadows  brought  out 
new  subtleties  in  the  modeling  of  her  face.  Her  lightened 
heart  gleamed  through  her  eyes,  like  a  lighted  lamp.  After 
a  time,  the  man  fell  into  a  complete  silence,  glancing  at  her 
frequently  as  though  storing  away  a  priceless  memoryt  .  .  , 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

"  A  MILESTONE  PASSED,  THE  ROAD  SEEMS 
CLEAR  " 

As  the  "  season  "  heightened,  the  beautiful  paneled  walls 
of  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  salon  were  frequently  the  back- 
ground for  chance  gatherings  of  extremely  appropriate  call- 
ers. They  seemed  a  visible  emanation  of  the  room,  so 
entirely  did  they  represent  what  that  sort  of  a  room  was 
meant  to  contain.  They  were  not  only  beautifully  but 
severely  dressed,  with  few  ornaments,  and  those  few  a 
result  of  the  same  concentrated  search  for  the  rare  which 
had  brought  together  the  few  bibelots  in  the  room,  which 
had  laid  the  single  great  dull  Persian  rug  on  the  unobtru- 
sively polished  oaken  floor,  which  had  set  in  the  high,  south 
windows  the  boxes  of  feathery  green  plants  with  delicate 
star-like  flowers. 

And  it  was  not  only  in  externals  that  these  carefully 
brushed  and  combed  people  harmonized  with  the  mellow 
beauty  of  their  background.  They  sat,  or  stood,  moved 
about,  took  their  tea,  and  talked  with  an  extraordinary  per- 
fection of  manner.  There  was  not  a  voice  there,  save  per- 
haps Austin  Page's  unstudied  tones,  which  was  not  carefully 
modulated  in  a  variety  of  rhythm  and  pitch  which  made 
each  sentence  a  work  of  art.  They  used,  for  the  most  part, 
low  tones  and  few  gestures,  but  those  well  chosen.  There 
was  an  earnest  effort  apparent  to  achieve  true  conversational 
give-and-take,  and  if  one  of  the  older  men  found  himself 
yielding  to  the  national  passion  for  lengthy  monologues  on 
a  favorite  theme,  or  to  the  mediocre  habit  of  anecdote, 
there  was  an  instant  closing  in  on  him  of  carefully  cas- 
ual team-work  on  the  part  of  the  others  which  soon 
reduced  him  to  the  tasteful  short  comment  and  answer 

384 


"  The  Road  Seems  Clear  "  385 

which  formed  the  framework  of  the  afternoon's  social 
activities. 

The  topics  of  the  conversation  were  as  explicitly  in  har- 
mony with  the  group-ideal  as  the  perfectly  fitting  gloves  of 
the  men,  or  the  smooth,  burnished  waves  of  the  women's 
hair.  They  talked  of  the  last  play  at  the  Francais,  of  the 
exhibitions  then  on  view  at  the  Petit  Palais,  of  a  new  tenor 
in  the  choir  of  the  Madeleine,  of  the  condition  of  the  auto- 
mobile roads  in  the  Loire  country,  of  the  restoration  of  the 
stained  glass  at  Bourges. 

On  such  occasions,  a  good  deal  of  Sylvia's  attention  being 
given  to  modulating  her  voice  and  holding  her  hands  and 
managing  her  skirts  as  did  the  guests  of  the  hour,  she 
usually  had  an  impression  that  the  conversation  was  clever. 
Once  or  twice,  looking  back,  she  had  been  somewhat  sur- 
prised to  find  that  she  could  remember  nothing  of  what 
had  been  said.  It  occurred  to  her,  fleetingly,  that  of  so 
much  talk,  some  word  ought  to  stick  in  her  usually  retentive 
memory;  but  she  gave  the  matter  no  more  thought.  She 
had  also  been  aware,  somewhat  dimly,  that  Austin  Page  was 
more  or  less  out  of  drawing  in  the  carefully  composed 
picture  presented  on  those  social  afternoons.  He  had  the 
inveterate  habit  of  being  at  his  ease  under  all  circumstances, 
but  she  had  felt  that  he  took  these  great  people  with  a  really 
exaggerated  lack  of  seriousness,  answering  their  chat  at 
random,  and  showing  no  chagrin  when  he  was  detected  in 
the  grossest  ignorance  about  the  latest  move  of  the  French 
Royalist  party,  or  the  probabilities  as  to  the  winner  of  the 
Grand  Prix.  She  had  seen  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth  an 
inexplicable  hidden  imp  of  laughter  as  he  gravely  listened, 
cup  in  hand,  to  the  remarks  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  William 
Winterton  Perth  about  the  inevitable  promiscuity  of  de- 
mocracy, and  he  continually  displayed  a  tendency  to  gravi- 
tate into  the  background,  away  from  the  center  of  the  stage 
where  their  deference  for  his  name,  fortune,  and  personality 
would  have  placed  him.  Sylvia's  impression  of  him  was  far 
from  being  one  of  social  brilliance,  but  rather  of  an  almost 
wilful  negligence.     She  quite  grew  used  to  seeing  him,  a 


386  The  Bent  Twig 

tall,  distinguished  figure,  sitting  at  ease  in  a  far  corner,  and 
giving  to  tne  scene  a  pleasant  though  not  remarkably  re- 
spectful attention. 

On  such  an  afternoon  in  January,  the  usual  routine  had 
been  preserved.  The  last  of  the  callers,  carrying  off  Mrs. 
Marshall-Smith  with  her,  had  taken  an  urbane,  fair-spoken 
departure.  Sylvia  turned  back  from  the  door  of  the  salon, 
feeling  a  fine  glow  of  conscious  amenity,  and  found  that 
Austin  Page's  mood  differed  notably  from  her  own.  He 
had  lingered  for  a  tete-a-tete,  as  was  so  frequently  his  habit, 
and  now  stood  before  the  fire,  his  face  all  one  sparkle  of 
fun.  "  Don't  they  do  it  with  true  American  fervor !  "  he 
remarked.  "  It  would  take  a  microscope  to  tell  the  differ- 
ence between  them  and  a  well-rehearsed  society  scene  on 
the  stage  of  the  Frangais !  That's  their  model,  of  course. 
It  is  positively  touching  to  see  old  Colonel  Patterson  sub- 
duing his  twang  and  shutting  the  lid  down  on  his  box  of 
comic  stories.  I  should  think  Mrs.  Patterson  might  allow 
him  at  least  that  one  about  the  cowboy  and  the  tenderfoot 
who  wanted  to  take  a  bath !  " 

The  impression  made  on  Sylvia  had  not  in  the  least  cor- 
responded to  this  one;  but  with  a  cat-like  twist  of  her 
flexible  mind,  she  fell  on  her  feet,  took  up  his  lead,  and 
deftly  produced  the  only  suitable  material  she  had  at  com- 
mand. "  They  seem  to  talk  well,  about  such  interesting 
things,  and  yet  I  can  never  remember  anything  they  say. 
It's  odd,"  she  sat  down  near  the  fireplace  with  a  great  air 
of  pondering  the  strange  phenomenon. 

"  No,  it  isn't  odd,"  he  explained,  dropping  into  the  chair 
opposite  her  and  stretching  out  his  long  legs  to  the  blaze. 
"  It's  only  people  who  do  something,  who  have  anything  to 
say.  These  folks  don't  do  anything  except  get  up  and  sit 
down  the  right  way,  and  run  their  voices  up  and  down  the 
scale  so  that  their  great-aunts  would  faint  away  to  hear 
them!  They  haven't  any  energy  left  over.  If  some  one 
would  only  write  out  suitable  parts  for  them  to  memorize, 
the  performance  would  be  perfect!"  He  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed  aloud,  the  sound  ringing  through  the 


"The  Road  Seems  Clear"  387 

room.  Sylvia  had  seldom  seen  him  so  lightheartedly 
amused.  He  explained :  "  I  haven't  seen  this  sort  of  solemn, 
genteel  posturing  for  several  years  now,  and  I  find  it  too 
delicious!  To  see  the  sweet,  invincible  American  naivete 
welling  up  in  their  intense  satisfaction  in  being  so  sophisti- 
cated,— oh,  the  harmless  dears !  "  He  cried  out  upon  them 
gaily,  with  the  indulgence  of  an  adult  who  looks  on  at  chil- 
dren's play. 

Sylvia  was  a  trifle  breathless,  seeing  him  disappear  so 
rapidly  down  this  unexpected  path,  but  she  was  for  the 
moment  spared  the  effort  to  overtake  him  by  the  arrival  of 
Tojiko  with  a  tray  of  fresh  mail.  "  Oh,  letters  from 
home ! "  Sylvia  rejoiced,  taking  a  bulky  one  and  a  thin  one 
from  the  pile.  "  The  fat  one  is  from  Father,"  she  said,  hold- 
ing it  up.  "  He  is  like  me,  terribly  given  to  loquaciousness. 
We  always  write  each  other  reams  when  we're  apart.  The 
little  flat  one  is  from  Judith.  She  never  can  think  of  any- 
thing to  say  except  that  she  is  still  alive  and  hopes  I  am, 
and  that  her  esteem  for  me  is  undiminished.  Dear  Spartan 
Judy!" 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  the  man  opposite  her,  "  if  I  hadn't 
met  you,  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  believe  that  the 
institution  of  the  family  had  disappeared.  I  never  saw 
anything  like  you  Marshalls !  You  positively  seem  to  have 
a  real  regard  for  each  other  in  spite  of  what  Bernard  Shaw 
says  about  the  relations  of  blood-kin.  You  even,  incredible 
as  it  seems,  appear  to  feel  a  mutual  respect !  " 

"  That's  a  very  pretty  compliment  indeed,"  said  Sylvia, 
smiling  at  him  flashingly,  "  and  I'm  going  to  reward  you 
by  reading  some  of  Judith's  letter  aloud.  Letters  do  paint 
personalities  so,  don't  they?" 

He  settled  himself  to  listen. 

"  Oh,  it  won't  take  long !  "  she  reassured  him  laughingly. 
She  read: 

" '  Dear  Sylvie  :  Your  last  letter  about  the  palaces  at 
Versailles  was  very  interesting.  Mother  looked  you  up  on 
the  plan  of  the  grounds  in  Father's  old  Baedeker.    I'm  glad 


388  The  Bent  Twig 

to  know  you  like  Paris  so  much.  Our  chief  operating  sur- 
geon says  he  thinks  the  opportunities  at  the  School  of 
Medicine  in  Paris  are  fully  as  good  as  in  Vienna,  and 
chances  for  individual  diagnoses  greater.  Have  you  visited 
that  yet  ?  '  "  Over  the  letter  Sylvia  raised  a  humorous  eye- 
brow at  Page,  who  smiled,  appreciative  of  the  point. 

She  went  on :  "  '  Lawrence  is  making  me  a  visit  of  a  few 
days.  Isn't  he  a  queer  boy !  I  got  Dr.  Wilkinson  to  agree, 
as  a  great  favor,  to  let  Lawrence  see  a  very  interesting 
operation.  Right  in  the  middle  of  it,  Lawrence  fainted  dead 
away  and  had  to  be  carried  out.  But  when  he  came  to,  he 
said  he  wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything,  and  before 
he  could  really  sit  up  he  was  beginning  a  poem  about  the 
"  cruel  mercy  of  the  shining  knives."  ' "  Sylvia  shook  her 
head.     "  Isn't  that  Lawrence !     Isn't  that  Judith !  " 

Page  agreed  thoughtfully,  their  eyes  meeting  in  a  trustful 
intimacy.  They  themselves  might  have  been  bound  to- 
gether by  a  family  tie,  so  wholly  natural  seemed  their 
sociable  sitting  together  over  the  fire.  Sylvia  thought  with 
an  instant's  surprise,  "  Isn't  it  odd  how  close  he  has  come 
to  seem — as  though  I'd  always,  always  known  him;  as 
though  I  could  speak  to  him  of  anything — nobody  else  ever 
seemed  that  way  to  me,  nobody !  " 

She  read  on  from  the  letter :  " '  All  of  us  at  St.  Mary's 
are  feeling  very  sore  about  lawyers.  Old  Mr.  Winthrop 
had  left  the  hospital  fifteen  thousand  dollars  in  his  will,  and 
we'd  been  counting  on  that  to  make  some  changes  in  the 
operating-room  and  the  men's  accident  ward  that  are 
awfully  needed.  And  now  comes  along  a  miserable  lawyer 
who  finds  something  the  matter  with  the  will,  and  everything 
goes  to  that  worthless  Charlie  Winthrop,  who'll  probably 
blow  it  all  in  on  one  grand  poker-playing  spree.  It  makes 
me  tired !  We  can't  begin  to  keep  up  with  the  latest  X-ray 
developments  without  the  new  apparatus,  and  only  the 
other  day  we  lost  a  case,  a  man  hurt  in  a  railroad  wreck, 
that  I  know  we  could  have  pulled  through  if  we'd  been 
better  equipped !  Well,  hard  luck !  But  I  try  to  remember 
Mother's  old  uncle's  motto,  "  Whatever  else  you  do,  don't 


"The  Road  Seems  Clear"  389 

make  a  fuss  I  "  Father  has  been  off  for  a  few  days,  speaking 
before  Alumni  reunions.  He  looks  very  well.  Mother  has 
got  her  new  fruit  cellar  fixed  up,  and  it  certainly  is  great. 
She's  going  to  keep  the  carrots  and  parsnips  there  too.  I've 
just  heard  that  I'm  going  to  graduate  first  in  my  class — 
thought  you  might  like  to  know.  Have  a  good  time,  Sylvia. 
And  don't  let  your  imagination  get  away  with  you. 

"  '  Your  loving  sister, 

"  '  Judith/  " 

"  Of  all  the  perfect  characterizations ! "  murmured  Page, 
as  Sylvia  finished.    "  I  can  actually  see  her  and  hear  her !  " 

"  Oh,  there's  nobody  like  Judith !  "  agreed  Sylvia,  falling 
into  a  reverie,  her  eyes  on  the  fire. 

The  peaceful  silence  which  ensued  spoke  vividly  of  the 
intimacy  between  them. 

After  a  time  Sylvia  glanced  up,  and  finding  her  com- 
panion's eyes  abstractedly  fixed  on  the  floor,  she  continued 
to  look  into  his  face,  noting  its  fine,  somewhat  gaunt  model- 
ing, the  level  line  of  his  brown  eyebrows,  the  humor  and 
kindness  of  his  mouth.  The  winter  twilight  cast  its  first 
faint  web  of  blue  shadow  into  the  room.  The  fire  burned 
with  a  steady  blaze. 

As  minute  after  minute  of  this  hushed,  wordless  calm 
continued,  Sylvia  was  aware  that  something  new  was  hap- 
pening to  her,  that  something  in  her  stirred  which  had 
never  before  made  its  presence  known.  She  felt  very  queer, 
a  little  startled,  very  much  bewildered.  What  was  that  half- 
thought  fluttering  a  dusky  wing  in  the  back  of  her  mind? 
It  came  out  into  the  twilight  and  she  saw  if  for  what  it  was. 
She  had  been  wondering  what  she  would  feel  if  that  silent 
figure  opposite  her  should  rise  and  take  her  in  his  arms.  As 
she  looked  at  that  tender,  humorous  mouth,  she  had  been 
wondering  what  she  would  feel  to  press  her  lips  upon  it? 

She  was  twenty-three  years  old,  but  so  occupied  with 
mental  effort  and  physical  activity  had  been  her  life,  that 
not  till  now  had  she  known  one  of  those  half-daring,  half- 
frightened  excursions  of  the  fancy  which  fill  the  hours  of 


390  The  Bent  Twig 

any  full-blooded  idle  girl  of  eighteen.  It  was  a  woman  grown 
with  a  girl's  freshness  of  impression,  who  knew  that  ravished, 
scared,  exquisite  moment  of  the  first  dim  awakening  of 
the  senses.  But  because  it  was  a  woman  grown  with  a 
woman's  capacity  for  emotion,  the  moment  had  a  solemnity, 
a  significance,  which  no  girl  could  have  felt.  This  was  no 
wandering,  flitting,  winged  excursion.  It  was  a  grave  step 
upon  a  path  from  which  there  was  no  turning  back.  Sylvia 
had  passed  a  milestone.  But  she  did  not  know  this.  She 
sat  very  still  in  her  chair  as  the  twilight  deepened,  only 
knowing  that  she  could  not  take  her  eyes  from  those  tender, 
humorous  lips.  That  was  the  moment  when  if  the  man  had 
spoken,  if  he  had  but  looked  at  her  .  .  . 

But  he  was  following  out  some  thought  of  his  own,  and 
now  rose,  went  to  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith's  fine,  small  desk, 
snapped  on  an  electric  light,  and  began  to  write. 

When  he  finished,  he  handed  a  bit  of  paper  to  Sylvia. 
"  Do  you  suppose  your  sister  would  be  willing  to  let  me 
make  up  for  the  objectionable  Charlie  Winthrop's  defi- 
ciences?"  he  asked  with  a  deprecatory  air  as  though  he 
feared  a  refusal. 

Sylvia  looked  at  the  piece  of  paper.  It  was  a  check  for 
fifteen  thousand  dollars.  She  held  there  in  her  hand  seven 
years  of  her  father's  life,  as  much  money  as  they  all  had 
lived  on  from  the  years  she  was  sixteen  until  now.  And  this 
man  had  but  to  dip  pen  into  ink  to  produce  it.  There  was 
something  stupefying  about  the  thought  to  her.  She  no 
longer  saw  the  humor  and  tenderness  of  his  mouth.  She 
looked  up  at  him  and  thought,  "  What  an  immensely  rich 
man  he  is ! "  She  said  to  him  wonderingly,  "  You  can't 
imagine  how  strange  it  is — like  magic — not  to  be  believed — 
to  have  money  like  that ! " 

His  face  clouded.  He  looked  down  uncertainly  at  his 
feet  and  away  at  the  lighted  electric  bulb.  "  I  thought  it 
might  please  your  sister,"  he  said  and  turned  away. 

Sylvia  was  aghast  to  think  that  she  had  perhaps  wounded 
him.  He  seemed  to  fear  that  he  had  flaunted  his  fortune 
in  her  face.    He  looked  acutely  uncomfortable.    She  found 


"The  Road  Seems  Clear"  391 

that,  as  she  had  thought,  she  could  say  anything,  anything  to 
him,  and  say  it  easily.  She  went  to  him  quickly  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  "  It's  splendid,"  she  said,  looking  deeply 
and  frankly  into  his  eyes.  "  Judith  will  be  too  rejoiced !  It 
is  like  magic.  And  nobody  but  you  could  have  done  it  so 
that  the  money  seems  the  least  part  of  the  deed !  " 

He  looked  down  at  her,  touched,  moved,  his  eyes  very 
tender,  but  sad  as  though  with  a  divination  of  the  barrier 
his  fortune  eternally  raised  between  them. 

The  door  opened  suddenly  and  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  came 
in  quickly,  not  looking  at  them  at  all.  From  the  pale  agita- 
tion of  her  face  they  recoiled,  startled  and  alarmed.  She 
sat  down  abruptly  as  though  her  knees  had  given  way  under 
her.  Her  gloved  hands  were  perceptibly  trembling  in  her 
lap.  She  looked  straight  at  Sylvia,  and  for  an  instant  did 
not  speak.  If  she  had  rushed  in  screaming  wildly,  her 
aspect  to  Sylvia's  eyes  would  scarcely  have  been  more  elo- 
quent of  portentous  news  to  come.  It  was  a  fitting  introduc- 
tion to  what  she  now  said  to  them  in  an  unsteady  voice: 
"  I've  just  heard — a  despatch  from  Jamiaca — something 
terrible  has  happened.  The  news  came  to  the  American  Ex- 
press ofBce  when  I  was  there.  It  is  awful.  Molly  Sommer- 
ville  driving  her  car  alone — an  appalling  accident  to  the 
steering-gear,  they  think    Molly  found  dead  under  the  car." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
THE  ROAD  IS  NOT  SO  CLEAR 

It  shocked  Sylvia  that  Molly's  death  should  make  so  little 
difference.  After  one  sober  evening  with  the  stunning 
words  fresh  before  their  eyes,  the  three  friends  quickly  re- 
turned to  their  ordinary  routine  of  life.  It  was  not  that 
they  did  not  care,  she  reflected — she  did  care.  She  had  cried 
and  cried  at  the  thought  of  that  quivering,  vital  spirit  broken 
by  the  inert  crushing  mass  of  steel — she  could  not  bring  her- 
self to  think  of  the  soft  body,  mangled,  bloody.  Austin 
cared  too :  she  was  sure  of  it ;  but  when  they  had  expressed 
their  pity,  what  more  could  they  do  ?  The  cabled  statement 
was  so  bald,  they  hardly  could  believe  it — they  failed  al- 
together to  realize  what  it  meant — they  had  no  details  on 
which  to  base  any  commentary.  She  who  had  lived  so 
intensely,  was  dead.  They  were  sorry  for  her.  That  was 
all. 

As  an  apology  for  their  seeming  callousness  they  reiterated 
Aunt  Victoria's  dictum :  "  We  can  know  nothing  about  it 
until  Felix  comes.  Let  us  hold  our  minds  in  suspense  until 
we  know  what  to  think."  That  Morrison  would  be  in  Paris 
soon,  none  of  them  doubted.  Indeed,  they  united  in  insisting 
on  the  number  of  natural — oh,  perfectly  natural — reasons 
for  his  coming.  He  had  always  spent  a  part  of  every  winter 
there,  had  in  fact  a  tiny  apartment  on  the  Rue  St.  Honore 
which  dated  from  his  bachelor  life;  and  now  he  had  a 
double  reason  for  coming,  since  much  of  Molly's  fortune 
chanced  to  be  in  French  bonds.  Her  father  had  been 
(among  other  things)  American  agent  for  the  Comptoir 
National  des  Escomptes,  and  he  had  taken  advantage  of  his 
unusual  opportunities  for  acquiring  solid  French  and  re- 
munerative Algerian  securities.  Page  had  said  at  once  that 
Morrison  would  need  to  go  through  a  good  many  formalities, 

392 


The  Road  Is  Not  so  Clear  393 

under  the  French  laws.  So  pending  fuller  information, 
they  did  not  discuss  the  tragedy.  Their  lives  ran  on,  and 
Molly,  dead,  was  in  their  minds  almost  as  little  as  Molly, 
living  but  absent,  had  been. 

It  was  only  two  months  before  Felix  Morrison  arrived  in 
Paris.  They  had  expected  him.  They  had  spoken  of  the 
chance  of  his  arrival  on  this  or  that  day.  Sylvia  had  re- 
hearsed all  the  possible  forms  of  self-possession  for  their 
first  meeting;  but  on  the  rainy  February  afternoon  when 
she  came  in  from  representing  Aunt  Victoria  at  a  reception 
and  saw  him  sitting  by  the  fire,  her  heart  sank  down  and 
stopped  for  an  instant,  and  when  it  went  on  beating  she 
could  hear  no  sound  but  the  drumming  of  her  pulse.  The 
back  of  his  chair  was  towards  her.  All  she  could  see  as  she 
stood  for  a  moment  in  the  doorway  was  his  head,  the 
thick,  graying  dark  hair,  and  one  long-fingered,  sensitive, 
beautiful  hand  lying  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  At  the  sight, 
she  felt  in  her  own  palm  the  soft  firmness  of  those  fingers  as 
palpably  as  ever  she  had  in  reality. 

The  instant's  pause  before  Aunt  Victoria  saw  her  standing 
there,  gave  her  back  her  self-control.  When  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  turned  and  gravely  held  out  her  hand,  Sylvia  came 
forward  with  a  sober  self-possession.  The  man  turned  too, 
sprang  up  with  an  exclamation  apparently  of  surprise, 
"Miss  Marshall,  you  here!"  and  extended  his  hand.  Syl- 
via, searching  his  face  earnestly,  found  it  so  worn,  saw  in 
it  such  dark  traces  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  that  the  quick 
tears  of  sympathy  stood  in  her  eyes. 

Her  dread  of  the  meeting,  a  morbid  dread  that  had  in  it 
an  acknowledged  element  of  horror,  vanished.  Before  that 
moment  she  had  seen  only  Molly's  face  as  it  had  looked  the 
day  of  their  desperate  talk,  white  and  despairing,  and 
resolutely  bent  over  the  steering-wheel.  She  had  not  been 
able  to  imagine  Felix'  face  at  all,  had  instinctively  put  it 
out  of  her  mind ;  but  as  she  looked  into  it  now,  her  fear  of 
it  disappeared.  It  was  the  fine,  sensitive  face  of  a  fine,  sensi- 
tive man  who  has  known  a  great  shock.  What  had  she 
feared  she  would  see  there  ?    He  was  still  holding  her  hand, 


394  The  Bent  Twig 

very  much  affected  at  seeing  her,  evidently  still  in  a  super- 
sensitive condition  when  everything  affected  him  strongly. 
"  She  loved  you — she  admired  you  so !  "  he  said,  his  won- 
derful voice  wavering  and  uncertain.  Sylvia's  tears  fell 
openly  at  this.  She  sat  down  on  a  low  stool  near  her  aunt's 
knees.  "  I  can't  believe  it — I  haven't  been  able  to  believe 
it!"  she  told  him;  "Molly  was — she  was  more  alive  than 
anybody  I  ever  saw  !  " 

"  If  you  had  seen  her  that  morning,"  he  told  them  both, — 
"  like  a  flame  of  vitality — almost  frightening — so  vivid.  She 
waved  good-bye,  and  then  that  was  not  enough;  she  got 
out  of  the  car  and  ran  back  up  the  hotel-step  to  say  good- 
bye for  just  those  few  moments — and  was  off — such  youth! 
such  youth  in  all  her " 

Sylvia  cried  out,  "  Oh,  no !  no !  it's  too  dreadful !  "  She 
felt  the  horror  sweep  down  on  her  again ;  but  now  it  did  not 
bear  Felix'  face  among  its  baneful  images.  He  stood  there, 
shocked,  stricken,  but  utterly  bewildered,  utterly  ignorant — 
for  the  moment  in  her  relief  she  had  called  his  ignorance 
utter  innocence  .  .  . 

They  did  not  see  him  again  for  many  days,  and  when  he 
came,  very  briefly,  speaking  of  business  technicalities  which 
absorbed  him,  he  was  noticeably  absent  and  careworn.  He 
looked  much  older.  The  gray  in  his  thick  hair  had  in- 
creased. He  looked  very  beautiful  and  austere  to  Sylvia. 
They  exchanged  no  more  than  the  salutations  of  arrival 
and  farewell. 

Then  one  day,  as  she  and  Aunt  Victoria  and  Austin  Page 
strolled  down  the  long  gallery  of  the  Louvre,  they  came 
upon  him,  looking  at  the  Ribera  Entombment.  He  joined 
them,  walking  with  them  through  the  Salon  Carre  and  out 
to  the  Winged  Victory,  calling  Sylvia's  attention  to  the 
Botticelli  frescoes  beyond  on  the  landing.  "  It's  the  first 
time  I've  been  here,"  he  told  them,  his  only  allusion  to  what 
lay  back  of  him.  "It  is  like  coming  back  to  true  friends. 
Blessed  be  all  true  friends."  He  shook  hands  with  them, 
and  went  away  down  the  great  stairway,  a  splendid  figure 
of  dignity  and  grace. 


The  Road  Is  Not  so  Clear  395 

After  this  he  came  once  and  again  to  the  apartment  of 
the  Rue  de  Presbourg,  generally  it  would  appear  to  use  the 
piano.  He  had  none  in  his  own  tiny  pied-a-terre  and  he 
missed  it.  Sylvia  immensely  liked  his  continuing  to  cling 
for  a  time  to  the  simple  arrangements  of  his  frugal  bachelor 
days.  He  could  now  of  course  have  bought  a  thousand 
pianos.  They  understood  how  he  would  miss  his  music, 
and  stole  in  quietly  when,  upon  opening  the  door,  Tojiko 
told  them  that  Mr.  Morrison  had  come  in,  and  they  heard 
from  the  salon  his  delicately  firm  touch  on  the  keys.  Some- 
times they  listened  from  their  rooms,  sometimes  the  two 
women  took  possession  of  the  little  octagonal  room  off  the 
salon,  all  white  paneling  and  gilt  chairs,  and  listened  there; 
sometimes,  as  the  weeks  went  on  and  an  especially  early 
spring  began  to  envelop  Paris  in  a  haze  of  sunshine  and 
budding  leaves,  they  stepped  out  to  listen  on  the  wrought- 
iron  balcony  which  looked  down  the  long,  shining  vista  of 
the  tree-framed  avenue.  For  the  most  part  he  played  Bach, 
grave,  courageous,  formal,  great-hearted  music. 

Sometimes  he  went  away  with  no  more  than  a  nod  and 
a  smile  to  them,  but  more  and  more,  when  he  had  finished, 
he  came  out  where  they  were,  and  stood  or  sat  to  exchange 
brief  impressions  on  the  enchanting  season,  or  on  some 
social  or  aesthetic  treat  which  "  ces  dames"  had  been  enjoy- 
ing. Austin  Page  was  frequently  with  them,  as  in  the 
earlier  part  of  the  winter,  and  it  was  finally  he  himself  who 
one  day  took  the  step  of  asking  Morrison  if  he  would  not 
go  with  them  to  the  Louvre.  "  No  one  could  appreciate 
more  than  Miss  Marshall  what  has  always  been  such  a 
delight  to  us  all." 

They  went,  and  not  only  once.  That  was  the  beginning 
of  another  phase;  a  period  when,  as  he  began  to  take  up 
life  again,  he  turned  to  his  old  friends  to  help  him  do  it. 
He  saw  almost  no  one  else,  certainly  no  one  else  there,  for 
he  was  sure  to  disappear  upon  the  arrival  of  a  caller,  or  the 
announcement  of  an  expedition  in  which  other  people  were 
included.  But  he  returned  again  and  again  to  the  Louvre 
with  them,  his  theory  of  galleries  necessitating  frequent 


396  The  Bent  Twig 

visits.  Nothing  could  be  more  idiotic,  he  held,  than  to  try 
to  see  on  one  occasion  all,  or  even  half,  or  even  a  tenth 
part,  of  a  great  collection  of  works  of  art.  "  It  is  exactly  as 
reasonable,"  he  contended,  "  as  to  read  through  on  the  same 
day  every  poem  in  a  great  anthology.  Who  could  have 
anything  but  nausea  for  poetry  after  such  a  gorge?  And 
they  must  hate  pictures  or  else  be  literally  blind  to  them,  the 
people  who  look  at  five  hundred  in  a  morning!  If  I  had 
looked  at  every  picture  in  the  Long  Gallery  in  one  walk 
through  it,  I  should  thrust  my  cane  through  the  Titian 
Francis-First  itself  when  I  came  to  the  Salon  Carre." 

So  he  took  them  to  see  only  a  few,  five  or  six,  care- 
fully selected  things — there  was  one  wonderful  day  when 
he  showed  them  nothing  but  the  Da  Vinci  Saint  Anne,  and 
the  Venus  of  Melos,  comparing  the  dissimilar  beauty  of 
those  two  divine  faces  so  vitally,  that  Sylvia  for  days  after- 
wards, when  she  closed  her  eyes  and  saw  them,  felt  that 
she  looked  on  two  living  women.  She  told  them  this  and, 
"  Which  one  do  you  see  most  ?  "  he  asked  her.  "  Oh,  the 
Saint  Anne,"  she  told  him. 

He  seemed  dissatisfied.  But  she  did  not  venture  to  ask 
him  why.  They  lived  in  an  atmosphere  where  omissions 
were  vital. 

Sylvia  often  wondered  in  those  days  if  there  ever  had 
been  a  situation  so  precariously  balanced  which  continued 
to  hang  poised  and  stable,  minute  after  minute,  hour  after 
hour,  day  after  day.  There  were  moments  when  her  head 
was  swimming  with  moral  dizziness.  She  wondered  if  such 
moments  ever  came  to  the  two  quiet,  self-controlled  men 
who  came  and  went,  with  cordial,  easy  friendliness,  in  and 
out  of  the  appartement  on  the  Rue  de  Presbourg.  They 
gave  no  sign  of  it,  they  gave  no  sign  of  anything  beyond  the 
most  achieved  appearance  of  a  natural  desire  to  be  obliging 
and  indulgent  to  the  niece  of  an  old  friend.  This  appear- 
ance was  kept  up  with  such  unflagging  perseverance  that  it 
almost  seemed  consciously  concerted  between  them.  They 
so  elaborately  avoided  the  slightest  appearance  of  rivalry 
that  their  good  taste,  like  a  cloth  thrown  over  an  unknown 


The  Road  Is  Not  so  Clear  397 

object,  inevitably  excited  curiosity  as  to  what  was  concealed 
beneath  it. 

And  Sylvia  was  not  to  be  outdone.  She  turned  her  own 
eyes  away  from  it  as  sedulously  as  they.  She  never  let  a 
conscious  thought  dwell  on  it — and  like  all  other  repressed 
and  strangled  currents  of  thought,  it  grew  swollen  and 
restive,  rilling  her  subconsciousness  with  monstrous,  un- 
formulated speculations.  She  was  extremely  absorbed  in 
the  luxury,  the  amenity,  the  smooth-working  perfection  of 
the  life  about  her.  She  consciously  concentrated  all  her 
faculties  on  her  prodigious  opportunity  for  aesthetic  growth, 
for  appreciation  of  the  fine  and  marvelous  things  about  her. 
She  let  go  the  last  scruple  which  had  held  her  back  from 
accepting  from  Aunt  Victoria  the  shower  of  beautiful 
things  to  wear  which  that  connoisseur  in  wearing  apparel 
delighted  to  bestow  upon  an  object  so  deserving.  She  gave 
a  brilliant  outward  effect  of  enjoying  life  as  it  came  which 
was  as  impersonal  as  that  of  the  two  men  who  looked  at 
her  so  frequently,  and  this  effect  went  as  deep  as  her  will- 
power had  command.  But  beneath — unacknowledged 
waves  beating  on  the  shore  of  her  life  and  roughly,  irre- 
sistibly, rudely  fashioning  it — rolled  a  ground-swell  of  im- 
perious questionings.  .  .  . 

Was  Felix'  perfect  manner  of  impersonal  interest  solely 
due  to  the  delicacy  of  his  situation?  Did  he  feel  now  that 
he  was  as  rich  as  Austin  .  .  .  ?  But,  on  the  other  hand,  why 
did  he  come  now  and  put  himself  in  a  situation  which  re- 
quired the  utmost  efforts  for  unconsciousness  on  every- 
body's part  if  not  because  Austin's  being  there  had  meant 
he  dared  not  wait?  And  Austin's  change  of  manner  since 
the  arrival  of  the  other  man,  the  film  of  ceremony  which 
had  slid  imperceptibly  over  the  tender  friendliness  of  his 
manner,  did  that  mean  that  he  would  not  take  advantage  of 
Morrison's  temporarily  tied  hands,  but,  with  a  scrupulous- 
ness all  his  own,  would  wait  until  the  race  was  even  and  they 
stood  foot  to  foot  on  the  same  level  ?  Or  had  he  noticed  at 
once,  with  those  formidably  clear  eyes  of  his,  some  shade  of 
Jaer  manner  to  Felix  which  she  had  not  been  able  to  com- 


398  The  Bent  Twig 

mand,  and  was  he  waiting  for  some  move  from  her?  And 
how  could  she  move  until  she  had  some  sign  from  Felix  and 
how  could  he  give  a  sign?  There  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  wait,  to  hope  that  the  thin  ice  which  now  bent  perilously 
under  the  pleasant  ceremonies  of  their  life  in  common, 
would  hold  them  until  .  .  .  Even  the  wildest  up-leaping 
wave  of  that  tossing  tide  never  went  beyond  the  blank  wa/J 
which  came  after  the  "  until.  .  .  ." 

There  were  other  moments  when  all  that  surge  swung 
back  and  forth  to  the  rhythm  of  the  poisoned  recollection 
of  her  unacknowledged  humiliation  in  Lydford;  when,  in- 
flamed with  determination  to  avoid  another  such  blow  in 
the  face,  Sylvia  almost  consciously  asked  herself,  self-con- 
temptuously,  "  Who  am  I,  an  obscure,  poverty-stricken 
music-teacher  out  of  the  West,  to  fancy  that  I  have  but  to 
choose  between  two  such  men,  two  such  fortunes  ? "  but 
against  this  counted  strongly  the  constantly  recurring 
revelations  of  the  obscure  pasts  of  many  of  the  women 
whom  she  met  during  those  days,  women  who  were  now 
shining,  acknowledged  firsts  in  the  procession  of  success. 
The  serene,  stately,  much-admired  Princesse  de  Chevrille 
had  been  a  Miss  Sommers  from  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and  she 
had  come  to  Paris  first  as  a  governess.  The  beautiful  Mrs. 
William  Winterton  Perth,  now  Aunt  Victoria's  favorite 
friend,  who  entertained  lesser  royalty  and  greater  men  of 
letters  with  equal  quiet  dignity,  had  in  her  youth,  so  she 
chanced  casually  one  day  to  mention,  known  what  it  was 
to  be  thrifty  about  car-fares.  There  was  nothing  in- 
trinsically impossible  in  any  of  the  glittering  vistas  down 
which  Sylvia's  quick  eye  cast  involuntary  glances. 

But  inevitably,  when  the  heaving  dark  tide  rose  as  high 
as  this,  there  came  a  swift  and  deadly  ebbing  away  of  it 
all,  and  into  Sylvia's  consciousness  (always  it  seemed  to 
her  with  the  most  entire  irrelevance)  there  flared  up  the 
picture  of  Molly  as  she  had  seen  her  last,  shimmering  like 
a  jewel  in  her  white  veil — then  the  other  picture,  the  over- 
turned car,  the  golden  head  bruised  and  bloody  and  forever 
stilled — and  always,  always  beyond  that,  the  gaunt,  mon- 


The  Road  Is  Not  so  Clear  399 

strous  possibility,  too  awful  ever  to  be  put  into  words,  too 
impossible  for  credence  .  .  . 

From  that  shapeless,  looming,  black  mass,  Sylvia  fled 
away  actually  and  physically,  springing  to  her  feet  wherever 
she  was,  entering  another  room,  taking  up  some  other 
occupation. 

Just  once  she  had  the  faintest  sign  from  beyond  the  wall 
that  she  was  not  alone  in  her  fear  of  this  horror.  She  was 
sitting  near  Austin  Page  at  a  tea,  one  of  the  frequent, 
small,  richly  chosen  assemblages  which  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  gathered  about  her.  Part  of  the  ensuing  chatter  on 
one  of  these  occasions  turned,  as  modern  chatter  frequently 
does,  on  automobiles.  The  husband  of  Mrs.  William 
Winterton  Perth  was  an  expert  on  such  matters,  having 
for  some  years  diverted  by  an  interest  in  mechanics  the 
immense  enforced  leisure  of  a  transplanted  male  American. 
He  was  talking  incessantly  that  day  of  the  wonderful  im- 
provement in  steering  mechanism  the  last  few  years  had 
Drought  about.  "  I  tell  you  what,  Miss  Marshall !  "  he  in- 
sisted, as  though  she  had  disputed  the  point  with  him,  "  I 
tell  you  what,  there  used  to  be  some  excuse  for  piling  your 
car  up  by  the  side  of  the  road,  but  nowadays  any  one  who 
doesn't  keep  in  the  road  and  right  side  up  must  be  just 
plain  looking  for  a  chance  to  use  his  car  like  a  dose  of 
cold  poison."  For  a  moment  Sylvia  could  not  conceive  why 
she  felt  so  sickening  a  thrust  at  her  heart.  She  turned  her 
eyes  from  the  speaker.  They  fell  on  a  man's  hand,  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair  next  hers.  It  was  Austin's  hand  and  it 
was  shaking  uncontrollably.  As  she  gazed  at  it,  fascinated, 
he  thrust  it  deep  into  his  pocket.  She  did  not  look  at  him. 
In  a  moment  he  rose  and  crossed  the  room.  The  husband 
of  Mrs.  William  Winterton  Perth  asked  for  another  petit 
four,  confessing  his  fondness  for  chocolate  edairs,-~and 
embarked  upon  demountable  rims. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

*  .  •  .  His  wife  and  children  perceiving  it,  began  to  cry 
after  him  to  return;  but  the  man  put  his  fingers  in  his 
ears  and  ran  on,  crying,  'Life!  Life  Eternal! '  " 

They  had  been  in  the  Louvre,  had  spent  an  hour  with 
Felix  in  that  glowing  embodiment  of  the  pomp  and  majesty 
of  human  flesh  known  as  the  Rubens  Medici-Room,  and 
now,  for  the  sheer  pleasure  of  it,  had  decided  to  walk  home. 
Mrs.  Marshall-Smith,  endowed  with  a  figure  which  showed 
as  yet  no  need  for  exercise,  and  having  passed  youth's  rest- 
less liking  for  it,  had  vetoed  the  plan  as  far  as  she  went, 
and  entering  her  waiting  car,  had  been  borne  smoothly  off, 
an  opulent  Juno  without  her  peacocks. 

The  three  who  were  left,  lingered  for  a  moment  in  the 
quiet  sunny  square  of  the  Louvre,  looking  up  at  the  statue 
of  Lafayette,  around  at  the  blossoming  early  shrubs.  Syl- 
via was  still  under  the  spell  of  the  riotous,  full-blown 
splendor  of  the  paintings  she  had  seen.  Wherever  she 
looked,  she  saw  again  the  rainbow  brilliance  of  those  glossy 
satins,  that  rippling  flooding  golden  hair,  those  ample, 
heaving  bosoms,  those  liquid  gleaming  eyes,  the  soft  abun- 
dance of  that  white  and  ruddy  flesh,  with  the  patina  of 
time  like  a  golden  haze  over  it.  The  spectacle  had  been 
magnificent  and  the  scene  they  now  entered  was  a  worthy 
successor  to  it.  They  walked  down  through  the  garden 
of  the  Tuileries  and  emerged  upon  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
at  five  o'clock  of  a  perfect  April  afternoon,  when  the  great 
square  hummed  and  sang  with  the  gleaming  traffic  of 
luxury.  Countless  automobiles,  like  glistening  beetles, 
darted  about,  each  one  with  its  load  of  carefully  dressed 
and  coiffed  women,  looking  out  on  the  weaving  glitter  of 
the  street  with  the  proprietary,  complacent  stare  of  those 

400 


"Life!     Life  Eternal!"  401' 

who  feel  themselves  in  the  midst  of  a  civilization  with 
which  they  are  in  perfect  accord.  Up  the  avenue,  beyond, 
streamed  an  incessant  parade  of  more  costly  cars,  more 
carriages,  shining,  caparisoned  horses,  every  outfit  sumptu- 
ous to  its  last  detail,  every  one  different  from  all  the  others, 
and  hundreds  and  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  them,  till  in 
the  distance  they  dwindled  to  a  black  stream  dominated  by 
the  upward  sweep  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  magnified  to 
fabulous  proportions  by  the  filmy  haze  of  the  spring  day. 
To  their  left  flowed  the  Seine,  blue  and  flashing.  A  little 
breeze  stirred  the  new  leaves  on  the  innumerable  trees. 

Sylvia  stopped  for  an  instant  to  take  in  the  marvel  of 
this  pageant,  enacted  every  day  of  every  season  against 
that  magnificent  background.  She  made  a  gesture  to  call 
her  companions'  attention  to  it — "  Isn't  it  in  the  key  of 
Rubens — bloom,  radiance,  life  expansive !  " 

"  And  Chabrier  should  set  it  to  music,"  said  Morrison. 

"  What  does  it  make  you  think  of  ?  "  she  asked.  "  It 
makes  me  think  of  a  beautiful  young  Greek,  in  a  purple 
chiton,  with  a  wreath  of  roses  in  his  hair." 

"  It  makes  me  think  of  a  beautiful  young  woman,  all 
fire  and  spirit,  and  fineness,  who  drinks  life  like  a  perfumed 
wine,"  said  Morrison,  his  eyes  on  hers.  She  felt  a  little 
shiver  of  frightened  pleasure,  and  turned  to  Page  to  carry 
it  off,  "  What  does  it  make  you  think  of  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  makes  me  think,"  he  answered  her  at  once,  his  eyes 
on  the  haze  caught  like  a  dream  in  the  tender  green  of 
the  budding  trees, — "  it  makes  me  think  of  a  half-naked, 
sweating  man,  far  underground  in  black  night,  striking  at 
a  rock  with  a  pick." 

If  he  had  burst  into  loud  profanity,  the  effect  could  not 
have  been  more  shocking.  "Oh!"  said  Sylvia,  vexed  and 
put  out.  She  began  to  walk  forward.  Morrison  in  his  turn 
gave  an  exclamation  which  seemed  the  vent  of  long-stored 
exasperation,  and  said  with  heat :  "  Look  here,  Page,  you're 
getting  to  be  a  perfect  monomaniac  on  the  subject!  What 
earthly  good  does  it  do  your  man  with  a  pick  to  ruin  a  fine 
moment  by  lugging  him  in ! " 


4-02  The  Bent  Twig 

They  were  all  advancing  up  the  avenue  now,  Sylvia  be- 
tween the  two  men.  They  talked  at  each  other  across  hen 
She  listened  intently,  with  the  feeling  that  Morrison  was 
voicing  for  her  the  question  she  had  been  all  her  life  wish- 
ing once  for  all  to  let  fly  at  her  parents'  standards :  "  What 
good  did  it  do  anybody  to  go  without  things  you  might  have  ? 
Conditions  were  too  vast  for  one  person  to  influence.,, 

"  No  earthly  good,"  said  Page  peaceably ;  "  I  didn't  say  it 
did  him  any  good.  Miss  Marshall  asked  me  what  all.  this 
made  me  think  of,  and  I  told  her." 

"  It  is  simply  becoming  an  obsession  with  you ! "  urged 
Morrison.  Sylvia  remembered  what  Page  had  said  about 
his  irritation  years  ago  when  Austin  had  withdrawn  from 
the  collector's  field. 

"  Yes,  it's  becoming  an  obsession  with  me,"  agreed  Page 
thoughtfully.  He  spoke  as  he  always  did,  with  the  simplest 
manner  of  direct  sincerity. 

"  You  ought  to  make  an  effort  against  it,  really,  my  dear 
fellow.     It's  simply  spoiling  your  life  for  you ! " 

"  Worse  than  that,  it's  making  me  bad  company !  "  said 
Page  whimsically.     "  I  either  ought  to  reform  or  get  out." 

Morrison  set  his  enemy  squarely  before  him  and  pro- 
ceeded to  do  battle.  "  I  believe  I  know  just  what's  in  your 
mind,  Page:  I've  been  watching  it  grow  in  you,  ever  since 
you  gave  up  majolica." 

"  I  never  claimed  that  was  anything  but  the  blindest  of 
impulses ! "  protested  Page  mildly. 

But  it  wasn't.  I  knew !  It  was  a  sign  you  had  been 
infected  by  the  spirit  of  the  times  and  had  '  caught  it '  so 
hard  that  it  would  be  likely  to  make  an  end  of  you.  It's 
all  right  for  the  collective  mind.  That's  dense,  obtuse;  it 
resists  enough  to  keep  its  balance.  But  it's  not  all  right 
for  you.  Now  you  just  let  me  talk  for  a  few  minutes,  will 
you?  I've  an  accumulated  lot  to  say!  We  are  all  of  us 
living  through  the  end  of  an  epoch,  just  as  much  as  the 
people  of  the  old  regime  lived  through  the  last  of  an  epoch 
in  the  years  before  the  French  Revolution.  I  don't  believe 
it's  going  to  come  with  guillotines  or  any  of  those  pic- 


"Life!    Life  Eternal!"  403 

turesque  trimmings.  We  don't  do  things  that  way  any- 
more. In  my  opinion  it  will  come  gradually,  and  finally 
arrive  about  two  or  three  generations  from  now.  And  it 
oughtn't  to  come  any  sooner!  Sudden  changes  never  save 
time.  There's  always  the  reaction  to  be  gotten  over  with, 
if  they're  sudden.  Gradual  growths  are  what  last.  Now 
anybody  who  knows  about  the  changes  of  society  knows 
that  there's  little  enough  any  one  person  can  do  to  hasten 
them  or  to  put  them  off.  They're  actuated  by  a  law  of  their 
own,  like  the  law  which  makes  typhoid  fever  come  to  a 
crisis  in  seven  days.  Now  then,  if  you  admit  that  the 
process  ought  not  to  be  hastened,  and  in  the  second  place 
that  you  couldn't  hasten  it  if  you  tried,  what  earthly  use 
is  there  in  bothering  your  head  about  it!  There  are  lots 
of  people,  countless  people,  made  expressly  to  do  whatever 
is  necessary,  blunt  chisels  fit  for  nothing  but  shaping  grind- 
stones. Let  them  do  it!  You'll  only  get  in  their  way  if 
you  try  to  interfere.  It's  not  your  job.  For  the  few  people 
capable  of  it,  there  is  nothing  more  necessary  to  do  for  the 
world  than  to  show  how  splendid  and  orderly  and  har- 
monious a  thing  life  can  be.  While  the  blunt  chisels  hack 
out  the  redemption  of  the  overworked  (and  Heaven  knows 
I  don't  deny  their  existence),  let  those  who  can,  preserve 
the  almost-lost  art  of  living,  so  that  when  the  millennium 
comes  (you  see  I  don't  deny  that  this  time  it's  on  the 
way!)  it  won't  find  humanity  solely  made  up  of  newly 
freed  serfs  who  don't  know  what  use  to  make  of  their 
liberty.  How  is  beauty  to  be  preserved  by  those  who  know 
and  love  and  serve  her,  and  how  can  they  guard  beauty 
if  they  insist  on  going  down  to  help  clean  out  the  sewers? 
Miss  Marshall,  don't  you  see  how  I  am  right?  Don't  you 
see  how  no  one  can  do  more  for  the  common  weal  than 
just  to  live,  as  finely,  as  beautifully,  as  intelligently  as 
possible  ?  And  people  who  are  capable  of  this  noblest  serv- 
ice to  the  world  only  waste  themselves  and  serve  nobody 
if  they  try  to  do  the  work  of  dray-horses." 

Sylvia  had   found   this   wonderfully  eloquent  and   con- 
vincing.    She  now  broke  in.    "  When  I  was  a  young  girl 


404  The  Bent  Twig 

in  college,  I  used  to  have  a  pretentious,  jejune  sort  of  idea 
that  what  I  wanted  out  of  life  was  to  find  Athens  and 
live  in  it — and  your  idea  sounds  like  that.  The  best  Athens, 
you  know,  not  sensuous  and  selfish,  but  full  of  lovely  and 
leisurely  sensations  and  fine  thoughts  and  great  emotions. " 

"  It  wasn't  pretentious  and  jejune  at  all !  "  said  Morri- 
son warmly,  "  but  simply  the  most  perfect  metaphor  of 
what  must  have  been — of  course,  I  can  see  it  from  here — 
the  instinctive  sane  effort  of  a  Mature  like  yours.  Let's 
all  try  to  live  in  Athens  so  that  there  will  be  some  one  there 
to  welcome  in  humanity." 

Page  volunteered  his  first  contribution  to  the  talk.  "  Oh, 
I  wouldn't  mind  a  bit  if  I  thought  we  were  really  doing 
what  Morrison  thinks  is  our  excuse  for  living,  creating 
fine  and  beautiful  lives  and  keeping  alive  the  tradition  of 
beauty  and  fineness.  But  our  lives  aren't  beautiful,  they're 
only  easeful.  They're  not  fine,  they're  only  well-upholstered. 
You've  got  to  have  fitly  squared  and  substantial  founda- 
tions before  you  can  build  enduring  beauty.  And  all  this," 
he  waved  his  hand  around  him  at  the  resplendent,  modern 
city,  "  this  isn't  Athens ;  it's — it's  Corinth,  if  you  want  to  go 
on  being  classic.  As  near  as  I  can  make  out  from  what 
Sylvia  lets  fall,  the  nearest  approach  to  Athenian  life  that 
I  ever  heard  of,  was  the  life  she  left  behind  her,  her 
parents'  life.  That  has  all  the  elements  of  the  best  Athenian 
color,  except  physical  ease.  And  ease  is  no  Athenian 
quality !  It's  Persian !  Socrates  was  a  stone-cutter,  you 
know.  And  even  in  the  real  Athens,  even  that  best 
Athens,  the  one  in  Plato's  mind — there  was  a  whole  class 
given  over  to  doing  the  dirty  work  for  the  others.  That 
never  seemed  to  bother  Plato — happy  Plato !  but — I'm  sure 
I  don't  pretend  to  say  if  it  ultimately  means  more  or  less 
greatness  for  the  human  race — but  somehow  since  Chris- 
tianity, people  find  it  harder  and  harder  to  get  back  to 
Plato's  serenity  on  that  point.  I'm  not  arguing  the  case 
against  men  like  you,  Morrison — except  that  there's  only 
one  of  you.  You've  always  seemed  to  me  more  like  Plato 
than  anybody  alive,  and   I've  regarded  you  as   the  most 


"Life!     Life  Eternal!"  405 

enviable  personality  going.  I'd  emulate  you  in  a  minute — 
if  I  could;  but  if  mine  is  a  case  of  mania,  it's  a  genuine 
case.  I'm  sane  on  everything  else,  but  when  it  comes  to 
that — it's  being  money  that  I  don't  earn,  but  they,  those 
men  off  there  underground,  do  earn  and  are  forced  to 
give  to  me — when  it  comes  to  that,  I'm  as  fixed  in  my 
opinion  as  the  man  who  thought  he  was  a  hard-boiled  egg. 
I  don't  blame  you  for  being  out  of  patience  with  me.  As 
you  say  I  only  spoil  fine  minutes  by  thinking  of  it,  and  as 
you  charitably  refrained  from  saying,  I  spoil  other  people's 
fine  moments  by  speaking  of  it." 

"  What  would  you  have  us  do ! "  Morrison  challenged 
him — "  all  turn  in  and  clean  sewers  for  a  living  ?  And 
wouldn't  it  be  a  lovely  world,  if  we  did !  " 

Page  did  not  answer  for  a  moment.  "  I  wonder,"  he 
finally  suggested  mildly,  "  if  it  were  all  divided  up,  the 
dirty  work,  and  each  of  us  did  our  share " 

"  Oh,  impractical !  impractical !  Wholly  a  back-eddy  in 
the  forward-moving  current.  You  can't  go  back  of  a 
world-wide  movement.  Things  are  too  complicated  now 
for  everybody  to  do  his  share  of  anything.  It's  as  reason- 
able, as  to  suggest  that  everybody  do  his  share  of  watch- 
making, or  fancy  juggling.  Every  man  to  his  trade !  And 
if  the  man  who  makes  watches,  or  cleans  sewers,  or  even 
mines  coal — your  especial  sore  spot — does  his  work  well, 
and  is  suited  to  it  in  temperament,  who  knows  that  he  does 
not  find  it  a  satisfaction  as  complete  as  mine  in  telling  a  bit 
of  genuine  Palissy  ware  from  an  imitation.  You,  for  in- 
stance, you'd  make  a  pretty  coal-miner,  wouldn't  you? 
You're  about  as  suited  to  it  as  Miss  Marshall  here  for  being 
a  college  settlement  worker !  " 

Sylvia  broke  out  into  an  exclamation  of  wonder.  "  Oh, 
how  you  do  put  your  finger  on  the  spot!  If  you  knew 
how  I've  struggled  to  justify  myself  for  not  going  into 
'  social  work '  of  some  kind !  Every  girl  nowadays  who 
doesn't  marry  at  twenty,  is  slated  for  '  social  betterment ' 
whether  she  has  the  least  capacity  for  it  or  not.  Public 
opinion  pushes  us  into  it  as  mediaeval  girls  were  shoved 


4o6v  The  Bent  Twig 

into  convents,  because  it  doesn't  know  what  else  to  do  with 
us.  It's  all  right  for  Judith, — it's  fine  for  her.  She's  made 
for  it.  I  envy  her.  I  always  have.  But  me — I  never  could 
bear  the  idea  of  interfering  in  people's  lives  to  tell  them 
what  to  do  about  their  children  and  their  husbands  just 
because  they  were  poor.  It  always  seemed  to  me  it  was 
bad  enough  to  be  poor  without  having  other  people  with  a 
little  more  money  messing  around  in  your  life.  I'm  differ- 
ent from  that  kind  of  people.  If  I'm  sincere  I  can't  pretend 
I'm  not  different.  And  I'm  not  a  bit  sure  I  know  what's 
any  better  for  them  to  do  than  what  they're  doing !  "  She 
had  spoken  impetuously,  hotly,  addressing  not  the  men 
beside  her  but  a  specter  of  her  past  life. 

"  How  true  that  is — how  unerring  the  instinct  which 
feels  it !  "  said  Morrison  appreciatively. 

Page  looked  at  Sylvia  quickly,  his  clear  eyes  very  tender. 
"  Yes,  yes ;  it's  her  very  own  life  that  Sylvia  needs  to  live," 
he  said  in  unexpected  concurrence  of  opinion.  Sylvia  felt 
that  the  honors  of  the  discussion  so  far  were  certainly  with 
Felix.  And  Austin  seemed  oddly  little  concerned  by  this. 
He  made  no  further  effort  to  retrieve  his  cause,  but  fell 
into  a  silence  which  seemed  rather  preoccupied  than  de- 
feated. 

They  were  close  to  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  now.  A  brilliant 
sunset  was  firing  a  salvo  of  scarlet  and  gold  behind  it,  and 
they  stood  for  a  moment  to  admire.  "  Oh,  Paris !  Paris !  " 
murmured  Morrison.  "  Paris  in  April !  There's  only  one 
thing  better,  and  that  we  have  before  us — Paris  in  May !  " 

They  turned  in  past  the  loge  of  the  concierge,  and 
mounted  in  the  languidly  moving  elevator  to  the  apparte- 
ment.  Felix  went  at  once  to  the  piano  and  began  playing 
something  Sylvia  did  not  recognize,  something  brilliantly 
colored,  vivid,  resonant,  sonorous,  perhaps  Chabrier,  she 
thought,  remembering  his  remark  on  the  avenue.  Without 
taking  off  her  hat  she  stepped  to  her  favorite  post  of 
observation,  the  balcony,  and  sat  down  in  the  twilight  with 
a  sigh  of  exquisitely  complete  satisfaction,  facing  the  sun- 
set, the  great  arch  lifting  his  huge,  harmonious  bulk  up 


"Life!    Life  Eternal!"  407 

out  of  the  dim,  encircling  trees,  the  resplendent  long  stretch 
of  the  lighted  boulevard.  The  music  seemed  to  rise  up 
from  the  scene  like  its  natural  aroma. 

Austin  Page  came  out  after  her  and  leaned  silently  on 
the  railing,  looking  over  the  city.  Morrison  finished  the 
Chabrier  and  began  on  something  else  before  the  two  on 
the  balcony  spoke.  Sylvia  was  asking  no  questions  of  fate 
or  the  future,  accepting  the  present  with  wilful  blindness  to 
its  impermanence. 

Austin  said :  "  I  have  been  trying  to  say  good-bye  all 
afternoon.     I  am  going  back  to  America  tomorrow." 

Sylvia  was  so  startled  and  shocked  that  she  could  not  be- 
lieve her  ears.  Her  heart  beat  hard.  To  an  incoherent, 
stammered  inquiry  of  hers,  he  answered,  "  It's  my  Colorado 
property — always  that.  It  spoils  everything.  I  must  go 
back,  and  make  a  decision  that's  needed  there.  I've  been 
trying  to  tell  you.  But  I  can't.  Every  time  I  have  tried, 
I  have  not  dared.  If  I  told  you,  and  you  should  beckon 
me  back,  I  should  not  be  strong  enough  to  go  on.  I  could 
not  leave  you,  Sylvia,  if  you  lifted  your  hand.  And  that 
would  be  the  end  of  the  best  of  us  both."  He  had  turned 
and  faced  her,  his  hands  back  of  him,  gripping  the  railing. 
The  deep  vibrations  of  his  voice  transported  her  to  that 
never- forgotten  moment  at  Versailles.  He  went  on:  "When 
it  is — when  the  decision  is  made,  I'll  write  you.  I'll  write 
you,  and  then — I  shall  wait  to  hear  your  answer ! "  From 
inside  the  room  Felix  poured  a  dashing  spray  of  diamond- 
like trills  upon  them. 

She  murmured  something,  she  did  not  know  what;  her 
breathing  oppressed  by  her  emotion.    "  Won't  you — shan't 

we  see  you — here ?  "     She  put  her  hand  to  her  side, 

feeling  an  almost  intolerable  pain. 

He  moved  near  her,  and,  to  bring  himself  to  her  level, 
knelt  down  on  one  knee,  putting  his  elbows  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair.  The  dusk  had  fallen  so  thickly  that  she  had 
not  seen  his  face  before.  She  now  saw  that  his  lips  were 
quivering,  that  he  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot.  "  It 
will  be  for  you  to  say,  Sylvia,"  his  voice  was  rough  and 


408  The  Bent  Twig 

harsh  with  feeling,  "  whether  you  see  me  again."  He  took 
her  hands  in  his  and  covered  them  with  kisses — no  grave 
tokens  of  reverence  these,  as  on  the  day  at  Versailles, 
but  human,  hungry,  yearning  kisses  that  burned,  that 
burned — 

And  then  he  was  gone.  Sylvia  was  there  alone  in  the 
enchanted  twilight,  the  Triumphal  Arch  before  her,  the 
swept  and  garnished  and  spangled  city  beneath  her.  She 
lifted  her  hand  and  saw  that  he  had  left  on  it  not  only 
kisses  but  tears.  If  he  had  been  there  then,  she  would 
have  thrown  herself  into  his  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
SYLVIA  COMES  TO  THE  WICKET-GATE 

Three  weeks  passed  before  his  letter  came.  The  slow, 
thrilling  crescendo  of  May  had  lifted  the  heart  up  to  a 
devout  certainty  of  June.  The  leaves  were  fully  out,  cast- 
ing a  light,  new  shadow  on  the  sprinkled  streets.  Every 
woman  was  in  a  bright-colored,  thin  summer  dress,  and 
every  young  woman  looked  alluring.  The  young  men  wore 
their  hats  tilted  to  one  side,  swung  jaunty  canes  as  they 
walked,  and  peered  hopefully  under  the  brim  of  every 
flowered  feminine  headdress.  The  days  were  like  golden 
horns  of  plenty,  spilling  out  sunshine,  wandering  per- 
fumed airs,  and  the  heart-quickening  aroma  of  the  new 
season.  The  nights  were  cool  and  starry.  Every  one  in 
Paris  spent  as  much  as  possible  of  every  hour  out  of  doors. 
The  pale-blue  sky  flecked  with  creamy  clouds  seemed  the 
dome,  and  the  city  the  many-colored  pavement  of  some  vast 
building,  so  grandly  spacious  that  the  sauntering,  leisurely 
crowds  thronging  the  thoroughfares  seemed  no  crowds  at 
all,  but  only  denoted  a  delightful  sociability. 

All  the  spring  vegetables  were  at  their  crispest,  most 
melting  perfection,  and  the  cherries  from  Anjou  were  like 
miniature  apples  of  Hesperus.  Up  and  down  the  smaller 
streets  went  white-capped  little  old  women,  with  baskets 
on  their  arms,  covered  with  snowy  linen,  and  they  chanted 
musically  on  the  first  three  notes  of  the  scale,  so  that  the 
sunny  vault  above  them  resounded  to  the  cry,  "  De  la  creme, 
f  romage  a  la  creme !  "  The  three  Americans  had  enchanted 
expeditions  to  Chantilly,  to  Versailles  again,  called  back 
from  the  past  and  the  dead  by  the  miracle  of  spring ;  to  more 
distant  formidable  Coucy,  grimly  looking  out  over  the  smil- 
ing country  at  its  foot,  to  Fontainebleau,  even  a  two  days' 

409 


4io  The  Bent  Twig 

dash  into  Touraine,  to  Blois,  Amboise,  Loches,  jewels  set  in 
the  green  enamels  of  May  .  .  .  and  all  the  time  Sylvia's  at- 
tempt to  take  the  present  and  to  let  the  future  bring  what 
it  would,  was  pitched  perforce  in  a  higher  and  higher  key, — 
took  a  more  violent  effort  to  achieve. 

She  fell  deeper  than  ever  under  Morrison's  spell,  and 
yet  the  lack  of  Austin  was  like  an  ache  to  her.  She  had 
said  to  herself,  "  I  will  not  let  myself  think  of  him  until 
his  letter  comes,"  and  she  woke  up  in  the  night  suddenly, 
seeing  the  fire  and  tenderness  and  yearning  of  his  eyes, 
and  stretching  out  her  arms  to  him  before  she  was  awake. 
And  yet  she  had  never  tried  so  hard  to  divine  every  shade 
of  Morrison's  fastidiousness  and  had  never  felt  so  supreme 
a  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  she  did.  There  were  strange, 
brief  moments  in  her  life  now,  when  out  of  the  warring 
complexity  in  her  heart  there  rose  the  simple  longing  of  a 
little  girl  to  go  to  her  mother,  to  feel  those  strong,  unfailing 
arms  about  her.  She  began  to  guess  dimly,  without  think- 
ing about  it  at  all,  that  her  mother  knew  some  secret  of  life, 
of  balance,  that  she  did  not.  And  yet  if  her  mother  were 
at  hand,  she  knew  she  could  never  explain  to  her — how 
could  she,  when  she  did  not  know  herself? — what  she  was 
living  through.  How  long  she  had  waited  the  moment 
when  she  would  know! 

One  day  towards  the  end  of  May,  Morrison  had  come  in 
for  lunch,  a  delicately  chosen,  deceptively  simple  meal  for 
which  Yoshida  had  outdone  himself.  There  had  been  a 
savory  mixture  of  sweetbreads  and  mushrooms  in  a  smooth, 
rich,  creamy  sauce;  green  peas  that  had  been  on  the  vines 
at  three  o'clock  that  morning,  and  which  still  had  the  aroma 
of  life  in  their  delectable  little  balls;  sparkling  Saumur; 
butter  with  the  fragrance  of  dew  and  clover  in  it;  crisp, 
crusty  rolls;  artichokes  in  oil — such  a  meal  as  no  mone) 
can  buy  anywhere  but  in  Paris  in  the  spring,  such  a  simple, 
simple  meal  as  takes  a  great  deal  of  money  to  buy  even  in 
Paris. 

"  It  is  an  art  to  eat  like  this,"  said  Morrison,  more  than 
half  seriously,  after  he  had  taken  the  first  mouthful  of  the 


Sylvia  Comes  to  the  Wicket-Gate        411 

golden  souffle  which  ended  the  meal.  "  What  a  May  we 
have  had !  I  have  been  thinking  so  often  of  Talleyrand's 
saying  that  no  one  who  had  not  lived  before  the  French 
Revolution,  under  the  old  regime,  could  know  how  sweet 
life  could  be ;  and  I've  been  thinking  that  we  may  live  to  say 
that  about  the  end  of  this  regime.  Such  perfect,  golden 
hours  as  it  has  for  those  who  are  able  to  seize  them.  It 
is  a  debt  we  own  the  Spirit  of  Things  to  be  grateful  and  to 
appreciate  our  opportunity." 

"  As  far  as  the  luncheon  goes,  it's  rather  a  joke,  isn't 
it,"  said  his  hostess,  "  that  it  should  be  an  Oriental  cook 
who  has  so  caught  the  true  Gallic  accent?  I'll  tell  Tojikc 
to  tell  Yoshido  that  his  efforts  weren't  lost  on  you.  He 
adores  cooking  for  you.  No,  you  speak  about  it  yourself. 
Here  comes  Tojiko  with  the  mail." 

She  reached  for  the  Herald  with  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  gave  Sylvia  a  letter  with  the  American  postmark. 
"  Oh,  Tojiko,"  said  Morrison  with  the  familiarity  of  an 
habitue  of  the  house,  "  will  you  tell  your  brother  for  me 
that  I  never  tasted  anything  like  his  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  broke  in  with  an  exclamation  of 
extreme  astonishment.  "  Oh — what  do  you  think — !  Sylvia, 
did  you  know  anything  about  this?    Of  all  the  crazy — why, 

what  under  the  sun ?    I  always  knew  there  was  a  vein 

of  the  fanatic — any  man  who  won't  smoke — you  may  be 

sure  there's  something  unbalanced !"    She  now  turned 

the  paper  as  she  spoke  and  held  it  so  that  the  headlines 
leaped  out  across  the  table : 

MILLIONAIRE    COAL  OPERATOR   TURNS  VAST 
HOLDINGS  OVER  TO  THE  STATE 

Son  of  Old  Peter  Page  Converted  to  Socialism 

"What!"  cried  Morrison.  Even  in  the  blankness  of  her 
stupefaction,  Sylvia  was  aware  of  a  rising  note  in  his  voice 
that  was  by  no  means  dismay. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Mrs.  Marshall- Smith,  reading  rapidly 


412  The  Bent  Twig 

and  disconnectedly  from  the  paper,  beginning  an  item  and 
dropping  it,  as  she  saw  it  was  not  the  one  she  was  search- 
ing for,  "  '  Mr.  Page  is  said  to  have  contemplated  some  such 
step  for  a  long  .  .  .' — m-m-m,  not  that  .  .  .  '  well-known 
collector  of  ceramics — Metropolitan  Museum — member  of 
the  Racquet,  the  Yacht,  the  Century,  the  Yale — thirty-two — 
Mother  Miss  Allida  Sommerville  of  Baltimore,  formerly  a 
great  beauty ' — here  it  is,"  she  stopped  skimming  and 
read  consecutively :  "  '  Mr.  Page's  plan  has  been  worked  out 
in  all  detail  with  experts.  A  highly  paid,  self-perpetuating 
commission  of  labor  experts,  sociologists,  and  men  of  prac- 
tical experience  in  coal-operating  has  been  appointed  to 
administer  Mr.  Page's  extremely  extensive  holdings.  The 
profits  form  a  fund  which,  under  the  stipulations  of  Mr. 
Page's  agreement  with  the  State,  is  to  be  used  to  finance  a 
program  of  advanced  social  activities;  to  furnish  money 
for  mothers'  pensions,  even  perhaps  for  fathers'  pensions  in 
the  case  of  families  too  numerous  to  be  adequately  cared 
for  on  workingmen's  wages ;  to  change  the  public  school 
system  of  the  locality  into  open-air  schools  with  spacious 
grounds  for  manual  activities  of  all  kinds ;  greatly  to  raise 
wages;  to  lengthen  the  period  of  schooling  before  children 
go  into  remunerative  occupations.  .  .  .' "  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  looked  up,  said,  "  Oh,  you  know,  the  kind  of  thing 
such  people  are  always  talking  about,"  and  began  to  skip 
again,  "  - — extensive  plans  for  garden  cities — public 
libraries — books  of  the  business  to  be  open  to  employes — 
educational  future — no  philanthropy — and  so  forth  and  so 
forth.' "  She  glanced  hurriedly  down  the  page,  caught  the 
beginning  of  another  sentence,  and  read :  "  '  The  news  has 
created  an  immense  sensation  all  over  the  country.  It  is 
prophesied  that  Mr.  Page's  unexpected  action  will  throw 
the  coal  business  into  great  confusion.  Other  operators  will 
find  it  extremely  difficult  to  go  on  with  the  old  conditions. 
Already  it  is  rumored  that  the  Chilton  Coal  and  Coke 
Company  .  .  .' " 

"  Well,  I  should  think  so  indeed ! "  cried  Morrison  em- 
phatically, breaking  in.     "  With  modern  industrial  condi- 


Sylvia  Comes  to  the  Wicket-Gate        413 

tions  hung  on  a  hair  trigger  as  they  are,  it's  as  though  a 
boy  had  exploded  a  fire-cracker  in  the  works  of  a  watch. 
That  means  his  whole  fortune  gone.  Old  Peter  put  every- 
thing into  coal.  Austin  will  not  have  a  cent — nothing  but 
those  Vermont  scrub  forests  of  his.  What  a  mad  thing  to 
do!  But  it's  been  growing  on  him  for  a  long  time.  I've 
seen — I've  felt  it !  " 

Sylvia  gave  a  dazed,  mechanical  look  at  the  letter  she 
held  and  recognized  the  handwriting.  She  turned  very 
white. 

Aunt  Victoria  said  instantly :  "  I  see  you  have  a  letter  to 
read,  my  dear,  and  I  want  Felix  to  play  that  D'Indy  Inter- 
lude for  me  and  explain  it — Bauer  is  going  to  play  it  tonight 
for  the  Princess  de  Chevrille.  We'll  bother  you  with  our 
chatter.    Don't  you  want  to  take  it  to  your  room  to  read  ?  " 

Sylvia  stood  up,  holding  the  unopened  letter  in  her  hand. 
She  looked  about  her  a  little  wildly  and  said :  "  Oh  no,  no ! 
I  think  I'd  rather  be  out  of  doors.  I'll  go  out  on  the 
balcony.'' 

"  It's  raining,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith. 

"  No,  not  yet,"  said  Morrison,  making  a  great  effort  to 
speak  in  an  ordinary  tone.  "  It's  only  going  to."  He  sat 
down  at  the  piano.  Sylvia  passed  him  and  went  out  to 
the  balcony.  She  opened  the  letter  and  read  it  through 
very  carefully.  It  was  a  long  one  and  this  took  some  time. 
She  did  not  hear  a  note  of  the  music  which  poured  its  plain- 
tive, eerie  cadences  around  her.  When  she  had  finished  the 
letter  she  instantly  started  to  read  it  again,  with  the  sen- 
sation that  she  had  not  yet  begun  to  understand  it.  She 
was  now  deeply  flushed.  She  continually  put  back  a  floating 
strand  of  hair,  which  recurrently  fell  across  her  forehead 
and  cheek. 

After  a  time,  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  said  from  the  open 
door :  "  Felix  and  I  are  going  to  Madeleine  Perth's.  Would 
you  rather  stay  here  ?  "    Sylvia  nodded  without  looking  up. 

She  sat  motionless,  looking  at  the  letter  long  after  she  had 
finished  it.  An  hour  passed  thus.  Then  she  was  aware 
that  it  was  beginning  to  rain.    The  drops  falling  on  the  open 


414  The  Bent  Twig 

letter  dissolved  the  ink  into  blurred  smears.  She  sprang 
up  hastily  and  went  into  the  salon,  where  she  stood  irreso- 
lute for  a  moment,  and  then,  without  calling  Helene,  went 
to  her  room  and  dressed  for  the  street.  She  moved  very 
quickly  as  though  there  were  some  need  for  extreme  haste, 
and  when  she  stepped  into  the  street  she  fell  at  once 
automatically  into  the  swinging  step  of  the  practised  walker 
who  sees  long  miles  before  him. 

Half  an  hour  later  she  was  looking  up  at  the  facade  of 
Notre  Dame  through  the  rain,  and  seeing  there  these  words : 
"  I  shall  be  waiting  at  Austin  Farm  to  hear  if  you  are  at 
all  able  to  sympathize  with  me  in  what  I  have  done.  The 
memory  of  our  last  words  together  may  help  you  to  imagine 
with  what  anxiety  I  shall  be  waiting." 

She  pushed  open  the  greasy,  shining  leather  door,  passed 
into  the  interior,  and  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  incense- 
laden  gloom  of  the  nave.  A  mass  was  being  said.  The 
rapidly  murmured  Latin  words  came  to  her  in  a  dim  drone, 
in  which  she  heard  quite  clearly,  quite  distinctly :  "  There  is 
another  kind  of  beauty  I  faintly  glimpse — that  isn't  just 
sweet  smells  and  lovely  sights  and  harmonious  lines — it's 
the  beauty  that  can't  endure  disharmony  in  conduct,  the 
fine,  true  ear  for  the  loveliness  of  life  lived  at  its  best — Syl- 
via, finest,  truest  Sylvia,  it's  what  you  could,  if  you  would — 
you  more  than  any  other  woman  in  the  world — if  we  were 
together  to  try " 

Sylvia  sank  to  her  knees  on  a  prie-Dieu  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands,  trying  to  shut  out  the  words,  and  yet  listening 
to  them  so  intently  that  her  breath  was  suspended.  .  .  . 
"  What  Morrison  said  is  true — for  him,  since  he  feels  it  to 
be  true.  No  man  can  judge  for  another.  But  other  things 
are  true  too,  things  that  concern  me.  It's  true  that  an 
honest  man  cannot  accept  an  ease  founded,  even  remotely, 
on  the  misery  of  others.  And  my  life  has  been  just  that.  I 
don't  know  what  success  I  shall  have  with  the  life  that's 
beginning,  but  I  know  at  least  it  will  begin  straight.  There 
seems  a  chance  for  real  shapeliness  if  the  foundations  are 
all  honest — doesn't  there  ?    Oh,  Sylvia — oh,  my  dearest  love, 


Sylvia  Comes  to  the  Wicket-Gate        415 

if  I  could  think  you  would  begin  it  with  me,  Sylvia! 
Sylvia ! " 

The  girl  sprang  up  and  went  hastily  out  of  the  church. 
The  nun  kneeling  at  the  door,  holding  out  the  silent  prayer 
for  alms  for  the  poor,  looked  up  in  her  face  as  she  passed 
and  then  after  her  with  calm,  understanding  eyes.  Kneeling 
there,  day  after  day,  she  had  seen  many  another  young, 
troubled  soul  fleeing  from  its  own  thoughts. 

Sylvia  crossed  the  parvis  of  Notre  Dame,  glistening  wet, 
and  passed  over  the  gray  Seine,  slate  under  the  gray  mist 
of  the  rain.  Under  her  feet  the  impalpable  dust  of  a  city 
turned  to  gray  slime  which  clung  to  her  shoes.  She  walked 
on  through  a  narrow,  mean  street  of  mediaeval  aspect  where 
rag-pickers,  drearily  oblivious  of  the  rain,  quarreled  weakly 
over  their  filthy  piles  of  trash.  She  looked  at  them  in 
astonishment,  in  dismay,  in  horror.  Since  leaving  La 
Chance,  save  for  that  one  glimpse  over  the  edge  back  in 
the  Vermont  mountains,  she  had  been  so  consistently  sur- 
rounded by  the  padded  satin  of  possessions  that  she  had 
forgotten  how  actual  poverty  looked.  In  fact,  she  had 
never  had  more  than  the  briefest  fleeting  glances  at  it. 
This  was  so  extravagant,  so  extreme,  that  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  her.  And  yet — and  yet —  She  looked  fleetingly 
into  those  pale,  dingy,  underfed,  repulsive  faces  and  won- 
dered if  coal-miners'  families  looked  like  that. 

But  she  said  aloud  at  once,  almost  as  though  she  had 
crooked  an  arm  to  shield  herself :  "  But  he  said  he  did  not 
want  me  to  answer  at  once !  He  said  he  wanted  me  to  take 
time — to  take  time — to  take  time  .  .  ."  She  hastened  her 
steps  to  this  refrain,  until  she  was  almost  running;  and 
emerged  upon  the  broad,  well-kept  expanse  of  the  Boule- 
vard St.  Germain  with  a  long-drawn  breath  of  relief. 

Ahead  of  her  to  the  right,  the  Rue  St.  Jacques  climbed  the 
hill  to  the  Pantheon.  She  took  it  because  it  was  broad 
and  clean  and  differed  from  the  musty  darkness  from  which 
she  had  come  out ;  she  fled  up  the  steep  grade  with  a  swift, 
light  step  as  though  she  were  on  a  country  walk.  She 
might   indeed  have   been   upon   some   flat   road   near   La 


41 6  The  Bent  Twig 

Chance  for  all  she  saw  of  the  buildings,  the  people  around 
her. 

How  like  Austin's  fine  courage  that  was,  his  saying  that 
he  did  not  want  her  to  decide  in  haste,  but  to  take  time 
to  know  what  she  was  doing!  What  other  man  would 
not  have  stayed  to  urge  her,  to  hurry  her,  to  impose  his 
will  on  hers,  masterfully  to  use  his  personality  to  confuse 
her,  to  carry  her  off?  For  an  instant,  through  all  her 
wretched  bewilderment,  she  thrilled  to  a  high,  impersonal 
appreciation  of  his  saying :  "  If  I  had  stayed  with  you,  I 
should  have  tried  to  take  you  by  force — but  you  are  too 
fine  for  that,  Sylvia!  What  you  could  be  to  the  man  you 
loved  if  you  went  to  him  freely — that  is  too  splendid  to 
risk  losing.  I  want  all  of  you — heart,  soul,  mind — or 
nothing !  "  Sylvia  looked  up  through  this  clear  white  light 
to  Austin's  yearning  eyes,  and  back  through  the  ages  with  a 
wondering  pity  at  the  dark  figure  of  Jerry  Fiske,  emerging 
from  his  cave.     She  had  come  a  long  way  since  then. 

And  then  all  this,  everything  fine,  everything  generous, 
ebbed  away  from  her  with  deadly  swiftness,  and  in  a  cold 
disgust  with  herself  she  knew  that  she  had  been  repeating 
over  and  over  Morrison's  "  Austin  will  not  have  a  cent 
left  .  .  .  nothing  but  those  Vermont  scrub  forests."  So 
that  was  the  kind  of  a  woman  she  was.  Well,  if  that  was 
the  kind  of  woman  she  was,  let  her  live  her  life  accordingly. 
She  was  sick  with  indecision  as  she  fled  onward  through 
the  rain. 

Few  pedestrians  were  abroad  in  the  rain,  and  those  who 
were,  sheltered  themselves  slant-wise  with  their  umbrellas 
against  the  wind,  and  scudded  with  the  storm.  Sylvia  had 
an  umbrella,  but  she  did  not  open  it.  She  held  her  face  up 
once,  to  feel  the  rain  fall  on  it,  and  this  reminded  her  of 
home,  and  long  rainy  walks  with  her  father.  She  winced  at 
this,  and  put  him  hastily  out  of  her  mind.  And  she  had  been 
unconsciously  wishing  to  see  her  mother!  At  the  very 
recollection  of  her  mother  she  lengthened  her  stride.  There 
was  another  thought  to  run  away  from! 

She  swung  around  the  corner  near  the  Pantheon  and 


Sylvia  Comes  to  the  Wicket-Gate        417 

rapidly  approached  the  door  of  the  great  Library  of  Ste. 
Genevieve.  A  thin,  draggled,  middle-aged  woman-student, 
entering  hastily,  slipped  on  the  wet  stones  and  knocked 
from  under  his  arm  the  leather  portfolio  of  a  thin,  draggled, 
middle-aged  man  who  was  just  coming  out.  The  woman 
did  not  stop  to  help  repair  the  damage  she  had  done,  but 
hastened  desperately  on  into  the  shelter  of  the  building. 
Sylvia's  eyes,  absent  as  they  were,  were  caught  and  held 
by  the  strange,  blank  look  of  the  man,  who  stood  motionless, 
his  shabby  hat  knocked  to  one  side  of  his  thin,  gray  hair,  his 
curiously  filmed  eyes  fixed  stupidly  on  the  litter  of  papers 
scattered  at  his  feet.  The  rain  was  beginning  to  convert 
them  into  sodden  pulp,  but  he  did  not  stir.  The  idea 
occurred  to  Sylvia  that  he  might  be  ill,  and  she  advanced 
to  help  him.  As  he  saw  her  stoop  to  pick  them  up,  he  said 
in  French,  in  a  toneless  voice,  very  indifferently :  "  Don't 
give  yourself  the  trouble.  They  are  of  no  value.  I  carry 
them  only  to  make  the  Library  attendants  think  I  am  a  bona- 
fide  reader.  I  go  there  to  sleep  because  I  have  no  other 
roof." 

His  French  was  entirely  fluent,  but  the  accent  was  Ameri- 
can. Sylvia  looked  up  at  him  surprised.  He  returned  her 
gaze  dully,  and  without  another  look  at  the  papers,  scuffled 
off  through  the  rain,  across  the  street  towards  the  Pantheon. 
His  boots  were  lamentable. 

Sylvia  had  an  instantly  vanishing  memory  of  a  pool  of 
quiet  sunshine,  of  a  ripely  beautiful  woman  and  a  radiant 
young  man.  Before  she  knew  she  was  speaking,  an  im- 
pulsive cry  had  burst  from  her :  "  Why,  Professor  Saunders ! 
Professor  Saunders!  Don't  you  know  me?  I  am  Sylvia 
Marshall!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
SYLVIA  DRIFTS  WITH  THE  MAJORITY 

"  No,  they  don't  let  you  sit  down  in  here  if  you're  as 
shabby  as  I  am,"  said  the  man,  continuing  his  slow,  feeble, 
shuffling  progress.  "  They  know  you're  only  a  vagrant, 
here  to  get  out  of  the  rain.  They  won't  even  let  you  stand 
still  long." 

Sylvia  had  not  been  inside  the  Pantheon  before,  had  never 
been  inside  a  building  with  so  great  a  dome.  They  stood 
under  it  now.  She  sent  her  glance  up  to  its  vast,  dim, 
,  noble  heights  and  brought  it  down  to  the  saturnine,  unsavory 
wreck  at  her  side.  She  was  regretting  the  impulse  which 
had  made  her  call  out  to  him.  What  could  she  say  to  him 
now  they  were  together  ?  What  word,  what  breath  could  be 
gentle  enough,  light  enough  not  to  be  poison  to  that  open  sore? 

On  his  part  he  seemed  entirely  unconcerned  about  the 
impression  he  made  on  her.  His  eyes,  his  sick,  filmed  eyes, 
looked  at  her  with  no  shrinking,  with  no  bravado,  with  an 
entire  indifference  which  gave,  through  all  the  desolation 
of  his  appearance,  the  strangest,  careless  dignity  to  the  man. 
He  did  not  care  what  she  thought  of  him.  He  did  not  care 
what  any  one  thought  of  him.  He  gave  the  impression  of 
a  man  whose  accounts  are  all  reckoned  and  the  balance 
struck,  long  ago. 

"  So  this  is  Sylvia,"  he  said,  with  the  slightest  appearance 
of  interest,  glancing  at  her  casually.  "  I  always  said  you 
would  make  a  beautiful  woman.  But  since  I  knew  Victoria, 
I've  seen  that  you  must  be  quite  what  she  was  at  your 
age."  It  might  have  been  a  voice  speaking  from  beyond  the 
grave,  so  listless,  so  dragging  was  its  rhythm.  "  How  do 
you  happen  to  be  in  Paris  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Are  your  parents 
still  alive?" 

418 


Sylvia  Drifts  with  the  Majority         419 

"  Oh  yes! "  said  Sylvia,  half  startled  by  the  preposter- 
ousness  of  the  idea  that  they  might  not  be.  "  They're  very 
well  too.  I  had  such  a  good  letter  from  Mother  the  other 
day.  Do  you  remember  Professor  Kennedy?  He  has  just 
given  up  his  position  to  be  professor  emeritus.  I  suppose 
now  he'll  write  that  book  on  the  idiocy  of  the  human  race 
he's  been  planning  so  long.  And  old  Mr.  Reinhardt,  he's 
still  the  same,  they  say  .  .  .  wonderful,  isn't  it,  at  his  age  ?  " 
She  was  running  on,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  and  chatter- 
ing rather  foolishly  in  her  embarrassment.  "  Judith  is  a 
trained  nurse;  isn't  that  just  the  right  thing  for  her?  I'm 
visiting  Aunt  Victoria  here  for  a  while.  Lawrence  is  a 
Freshman  at  .  .  ." 

He  broke  in,  his  hollow  voice  resounding  in  the  immense, 
vault-like  spaces  around  them.  "  You'd  better  go  home," 
he  said.  "  I'd  leave  tonight,  if  I  were  you."  She  looked  at 
him  startled,  half-scared,  thinking  that  she  had  been  right 
to  fancy  him  out  of  his  mind.  She  saw  with  relief  a  burly 
attendant  in  a  blue  uniform  lounging  near  a  group  of 
statuary.    She  could  call  to  him,  if  it  became  necessary. 

"  You'd  better  go  away  from  her  at  once,"  went  on  the 
man,  advancing  aimlessly  from  one  bay  of  the  frescoes  to 
another. 

Sylvia  knew  now  of  whom  he  was  speaking,  and  as  he 
continued  talking  with  a  slow,  dreary  monotony,  her  mind 
raced  back  over  the  years,  picking  up  a  scrap  here,  a  half- 
forgotten  phrase  there,  an  intercepted  look  between  her 
father  and  mother,  a  recollection  of  her  own,  a  half-finished 
sentence  of  Arnold's  .  .  . 

"  She  can't  be  fatal  for  you  in  the  same  way  she  has  been 
for  the  others,  of  course,"  the  man  was  saying.  "  What 
she'll  do  for  you  is  to  turn  you  into  a  woman  like  herself. 
I  remember  now,  I  have  thought  many  times,  that  you  were 
like  her  .  .  .  of  tl\e  same  clay.  But  you  have  something 
else  too,  you  have  something  that  she'll  take  away  from 
you  if  you  stay.  You  can't  keep  her  from  doing  it.  No 
one  can  get  the  better  of  her.  She  doesn't  fight.  But 
she  always  takes  life.     She  has   taken  mine.     She  must 


420  The  Bent  Twig 

have  taken  her  bogie-husband's,  she  took  young  Gilbert's* 
she  took  Gilbert's  wife's,  she  took  Arnold's  in  another  way. 
.  .  .  God !  think  of  leaving  a  young,  growing,  weak  soul  in 
the  care  of  a  woman  like  Victoria !  She  took  that  poet's, 
I  forget  his  name;  I  suppose  by  this  time  Felix  Morrison 
is  .  .  ." 

At  this  name,  a  terrible  contraction  of  the  heart  told 
Sylvia  that  she  was  listening  to  what  he  said.  "  Felix  Mor- 
rison !  "  she  cried  in  stern,  angry  protest.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you're  talking  about — but  if  you  think  that  Aunt  Vic- 
toria— if  you  think  Felix  Morrison "  She  was  inarticu- 
late in  her  indignation.  u  He  was  married  last  autumn  to 
a  beautiful  girl — and  Aunt  Victoria — what  an  idea! — no 
one  was  more  pleased  than  she — why — you  are  crazy!" 
She  flung  out  at  him  the  word,  which  two  moments  before 
she  would  not  have  been  so  cruel  as  to  think. 

It  gave  him  no  discomfort.  "  Oh  no,  I'm  not,"  he  said 
with  a  spectral  laugh,  which  had  in  it,  to  Sylvia's  dismay, 
the  very  essence  of  sanity.  She  did  not  know  why  she  now 
shrank  away  from  him,  far  more  frightened  than  before. 
"I'm  about  everything  else  you  might  mention,  but  I'm 
not  crazy.  And  you  take  my  word  for  it  and  get  out  while 
you  still  can  .  .  .  if  you  still  can  ?  "  He  faintly  indicated 
an  inquiry,  looking  at  her  sideways,  his  dirty  hand  stroking 
the  dishonoring  gray  stubble  of  his  unshaven  face.  "  As 
for  Morrison's  wife  ...  let  her  get  out  too.  Gilbert  tried 
marrying,  tried  it  in  all  unconsciousness.  It's  only  when 
they  try  to  get  away  from  her  that  they  know  she's  in  the 
marrow  of  their  bones.  She  lets  them  try.  She  doesn't 
even  care.  She  knows  they'll  come  back.  Gilbert  did.  And 
his  wife  .  .  .  well,  I'm  sorry  for  Morrison's  wife." 

"  She's  dead,"  said  Sylvia  abruptly. 

He  took  this  in  with  a  nod  of  the  head.  "  So  much  the 
better  for  her.  How  did  it  happen  that  you  didn't  fall  for 
Morrison's  .  .  ."  he  looked  at  her  sharply  at  a  change  in  her 
face  she  could  not  control.  "  Oh,  you  did,"  he  commented 
slackly.  "  Well,  you'd  better  start  home  for  La  Chance 
tonight,"  he  said  again. 


Sylvia  Drifts  with  the  Majority         421 

They  were  circling  around  and  around  the  shadowy 
interior,  making  no  pretense  of  looking  at  the  frescoed 
walls,  to  examine  which  had  been  their  ostensible  purpose  in 
entering.  Sylvia  was  indeed  aware  of  great  pictured  spaces, 
crowded  dimly  with  thronging  figures,  men,  horses,  women 
— they  reached  no  more  than  the  outer  retina  of  her  eye. 
She  remembered  fleetingly  that  they  had  something  to  do 
with  the  story  of  Ste.  Genevieve.  She  wanted  intensely  to 
escape  from  this  phantom  whom  she  herself  had  called 
up  from  the  void  to  stalk  at  her  side.  But  she  felt  she 
ought  not  to  let  pass,  even  coming  from  such  a  source,  such 
utterly  frenzied  imaginings  against  one  to  whom  she  owed 
loyalty.  She  spoke  coldly,  with  extreme  distaste  for  the 
subject :  "  You're  entirely  wrong  about  Aunt  Victoria.  She's 
not  in  the  least  that  kind  of  a  woman." 

He  shook  his  head  slowly.  "  No,  no ;  you  misunderstand 
me.  Your  Aunt  Victoria  is  quite  irreproachable,  she  always 
has  been,  she  always  will  be.  She  is  always  in  the  right. 
She  always  will  be.  She  did  nothing  to  me  but  hire  me  to 
teach  her  stepson,  and  when  my  habits  became  too  bad, 
discharge  me,  as  any  one  would  have  done.  She  did  nothing 
to  Arnold  except  to  leave  him  to  the  best  schools  and  the 
best  tutors  money  could  buy.  What  more  could  any  one 
have  done?  She  had  not  the  slightest  idea  that  Horace 
Gilbert  would  try  to  poison  his  wife,  had  not  the  slightest 
connection  with  their  quarrel.  The  young  poet, — Adams 
was  his  name,  now  I  remember — did  not  consult  her  before 
he  took  to  cocaine.  Morphine  is  my  own  specialty.  Vic- 
toria of  course  deplored  it  as  much  as  any  one  could.  No, 
I'm  not  for  a  minute  intimating  that  Victoria  is  a  Messalina. 
We'd  all  be  better  off  if  she  were.  It's  only  our  grossness 
that  finds  fault  with  her.  Your  aunt  is  one  of  the  most 
respectable  women  who  ever  lived,  as  '  chaste  as  unsunned 
snow — the  very  ice  of  chastity  is  in  her ! '  Indeed,  I've  often 
wondered  if  the  redoubtable  Ephraim  Smith  himself,  for  all 
that  he  succeeded  in  marrying  her,  fared  any  better  than 
the  rest  of  us.  Victoria  would  be  quite  capable  of  cheating 
him  out  of  his  pay.     She  parches,  yes,  she  dries  up  the 


422  The  Bent  Twig 

blood — but  it's  not  by  her  passion,  not  even  by  ours.  Honest 
passion  never  kills.  It's  the  Sahara  sands  of  her  egotism 
into  which  we've  all  emptied  our  veins." 

Sylvia  was  frozen  to  the  spot  by  her  outraged  indigna- 
tion that  any  one  should  dare  speak  to  her  thus.  She 
found  herself  facing  a  fresco  of  a  tall,  austere  figure  in  an 
enveloping  white  garment,  an  elderly  woman  with  a  thin, 
worn,  noble  face,  who  laid  one  fine  old  hand  on  a  stone 
parapet  and  with  divine  compassion  and  tenderness  looked 
out  over  a  sleeping  city.  The  man  followed  the  direction 
of  her  eyes.  "  It's  Puvis  de  Chavannes'  Ste.  Genevieve  as  an 
old  woman,  guarding  and  praying  for  the  city.  Very  good, 
isn't  it?  I  especially  admire  the  suggestion  of  the  plain 
bare  cell  she  has  stepped  out  from.  I  often  come  here  to 
look  at  it  when  I've  nothing  to  eat."  He  seemed  as  flaccidly 
willing  to  speak  on  this  as  on  any  other  topic ;  to  find  it  no 
more  interesting  than  the  subject  of  his  former  speech. 

Sylvia  was  overcome  with  horror  of  him.  She  walked 
rapidly  away,  towards  the  door,  hoping  he  would  not  follow 
her.  He  did  not.  When  she  glanced  back  fearfully  over 
her  shoulder,  she  saw  him  still  standing  there,  looking  up 
at  the  gaunt  gray  figure  of  beneficent  old  age.  His  dread- 
ful broken  felt  hat  was  in  his  hand,  the  water  dripped  from 
his  frayed  trousers  over  the  rotting  leather  of  his  shoes. 
As  she  looked,  he  began  to  cough,  loudly,  terribly,  so  that 
the  echoing  reaches  of  the  great  nave  resounded  to  the 
sound.  Sylvia  ran  back  to  him  and  thrust  her  purse  into  his 
hand.  At  first  he  could  not  speak,  for  coughing,  but 
in  a  moment  he  found  breath  to  ask,  "  Is  it  Victoria's 
money  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

He  held  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  opening  his  hand  let 
it  drop.  As  she  turned  away  Sylvia  heard  it  fall  clinking 
on  the  stone  floor.  At  the  door  she  turned  for  one  last  look, 
and  saw  him  weakly  stooping  to  pick  it  up  again.  She 
fairly  burst  out  of  the  door. 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  she  was  on  the  street  again, 
looking  down  the  steep  incline  to  the  Luxembourg  Gar- 


Sylvia  Drifts  with  the  Majority         423 

dens.  In  the  rainy  twilight  the  fierce  tension  of  the  Rodin 
"  Thinker "  in  front  of  the  Pantheon  loomed  huge  and 
tragic.  She  gave  it  a  glance  of  startled  sympathy.  She  had 
never  understood  the  statue  before.  Now  she  was  a  prey 
to  those  same  ravaging  throes.  There  was  for  the  moment 
no  escaping  them.  She  felt  none  of  her  former  wild  im- 
pulse to  run  away.  What  she  had  been  running  away  from 
had  overtaken  her.  She  faced  it  now,  looked  at  it  squarely, 
gave  it  her  ear  for  the  first  time ;  the  grinding,  dissonant  note 
under  the  rich  harmony  of  the  life  she  had  known  for  all 
these  past  months,  the  obscure  vaults  underlying  the  shining 
temple  in  which  she  had  been  living. 

What  beauty  could  there  be  which  was  founded  on  such 
an  action  as  Felix'  marriage  to  Molly — Molly,  whose  pas- 
sionate directness  had  known  the  only  way  out  of  the  im- 
passe into  which  Felix  should  never  have  let  her  go  ?  .  .  .  . 
An  echo  from  what  she  had  heard  in  the  mass  at  Notre 
Dame  rang  in  her  ears,  and  now  the  sound  was  louder — ■ 
Austin's  voice,  Austin's  words :  "  A  beauty  that  can't  endure 
disharmony  in  conduct,  the  fine  true  ear  for  the  deeper 
values,  the  foundations "  It  was  Austin,  asking  him- 
self what  beauty  could  be  in  any  life  founded,  even  remotely 
as  his  was,  on  any  one's  misery? 

For  a  long  time  she  stood  there,  silent,  motionless,  her 
hands  clenched  at  her  sides,  looking  straight  before  her  in 
the  rain.  Above  her  on  his  pedestal,  the  great,  bronze, 
naked,  tortured  man  ground  his  teeth  as  he  glared  out  from 
under  the  inexorable  limitations  of  his  ape-like  forehead, 
and  strove  wildly  against  the  barriers  of  his  flesh  .  .  . 

Wildly  and  vainly,  against  inexorable  limitations!  Syl- 
via was  aware  that  an  insolent  young  man,  with  moist  pro- 
tuberant eyes,  had  come  up  where  she  stood  there,  alone, 
motionless  on  the  public  street.  He  put  his  arm  in  hers, 
clasped  her  hand  in  a  fat,  soft  palm,  and,  "  Allons,  ma 
belle!"  he  said  with  a  revolting  gayety. 

Sylvia  pulled  away  from  him,  cried  out  fiercely  in 
English,  "  Don't  you  dare  to  touch  me ! "  and  darted 
away. 


424  The  Bent  Twig 

He  made  no  attempt  at  pursuit,  acknowledging  his  mis< 
take  with  an  easy  shrug  and  turning  off  to  roam,  a  dim, 
predatory  figure,  along  the  dusky  street.  He  had  startled 
and  frightened  the  girl  so  that  she  was  trembling  when  she 
ventured  to  slow  down  to  a  walk  under  the  glaring  lights  of 
the  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  She  was  also  shivering  with  wet 
and  cold,  and  without  knowing  it,  she  was  extremely 
hungry.  As  she  fled  along  the  boulevard  in  the  direction  of 
her  own  quarter  of  the  city,  her  eye  caught  the  lighted 
clock  at  the  kiosk  near  Cluny.  She  was  astonished  to  see 
that  it  was  after  seven  o'clock.  How  long  could  she  have 
stood  there,  under  the  shadow  of  that  terrific  Thinker,  con- 
sumed quite  as  much  as  he  by  the  pain  of  trying  to  rise 
above  mere  nature?  An  hour — more  than  an  hour,  she 
must  have  been  there.  The  Pantheon  must  have  closed 
during  that  time,  and  the  dreadful,  sick  man  must  have 
passed  close  by  her.  Where  was  he  now  ?  What  makeshift 
shelter  harbored  that  cough,  those  dirty,  skeleton  hands, 
those  awful  eyes  which  had  outlived  endurance  and  come 
to  know  peace  before  death  .  .  . 

She  shivered  and  tried  to  shrink  away  from  her  wet, 
clinging  clothing.  She  had  never,  in  all  her  life  before, 
been  wet  and  cold  and  hungry  and  frightened,  she  had 
never  known  from  what  she  had  been  protected.  And  now 
the  absence  of  money  meant  that  she  must  walk  miles  in 
the  rain  before  she  could  reach  safety  and  food.  For  three 
cents  she  could  ride.  But  she  had  not  three  cents.  How 
idiotic  she  had  been  not  to  keep  a  few  sous  from  her  purse. 
What  a  sickening  thing  it  had  been  to  see  him  stoop  to 
pick  it  up  after  he  had  tried  to  have  the  pride  not  to  touch 
it.  That  was  what  morphine  had  done  for  him.  And  he 
would  buy  more  morphine  with  that  money,  that  was  the 
reason  he  had  not  been  able  to  let  it  lie  .  .  .  the  man  who 
had  been  to  her  little  girlhood  the  radiant  embodiment  of 
strength  and  fineness ! 

Her  teeth  were  chattering,  her  feet  soaked  and  cold.  She 
tried  to  walk  faster  to  warm  her  blood,  and  discovered  that 
she  was  exhausted,  tired  to  the  marrow  of  her  bones.    Her 


Sylvia  Drifts  with  the  Majority         425 

feet  dragged  on  the  pavement,  her  arms  hung  heavily  by  her 
side,  but  she  dared  not  stop  a  moment  lest  some  other  man 
with  abhorrent  eyes  should  approach  her. 

She  set  her  teeth  and  walked;  walked  across  the  Seine 
without  a  glance  at  its  misted  lights  blinking  through  the 
rain,  walked  on  past  the  prison  of  Marie  Antoinette,  with- 
out a  thought  of  that  other  harmless  woman  who  had  loved 
bright  and  lovely  things  while  others  suffered:  walked  on 
upon  the  bridge  across  the  Seine  again.  This  bewildered 
her,  making  her  think  that  she  was  so  dazed  she  had 
doubled  on  her  tracks.  She  saw,  a  long  way  off,  a  solitary 
hooded  sergent  de  ville,  and  dragged  herself  across  an  end- 
less expanse  of  wet  asphalt  to  ask  him  her  way.  But  just 
before  she  reached  him,  she  remembered  suddenly  that  of 
course  she  was  on  the  island  and  was  obliged  to  cross  the 
Seine  again  before  reaching  the  right  bank.  She  returned 
weary  and  disheartened  to  her  path,  crossed  the  bridge,  and 
then  endlessly,  endlessly,  set  one  heavy  foot  before  the 
other  under  the  glare  of  innumerable  electric  lights  staring 
down  on  her  and  on  the  dismal,  wet,  and  deserted  streets. 
The  clocks  she  passed  told  her  that  it  was  nearly  eight 
o'clock.  Then  it  was  past  eight.  What  must  they  be  think- 
ing of  her  on  the  Rue  de  Presbourg?  She  tried  again  to 
hurry,  but  could  force  her  aching  muscles  to  no  more  than 
the  plod,  plod,  plod  of  her  dogged  advance  over  those  in- 
terminable miles  of  pavement.  There  was  little  of  her 
then  that  was  not  cold,  weary,  wet  flesh,  suffering  all  the 
discomforts  that  an  animal  can  know.  She  counted  her 
steps  for  a  long  time,  and  became  so  stupidly  absorbed  in 
this  that  she  made  a  wrong  turning  and  was  blocks  out  of 
her  way  before  she  noticed  her  mistake.  This  mishap  re- 
duced her  almost  to  tears,  and  it  was  when  she  was  choking 
them  weakly  back  and  setting  herself  again  to  the  cruel  long 
vista  of  the  Champs-Elysees  that  an  automobile  passed  her 
at  top  speed  with  a  man's  face  pressed  palely  to  the  panes. 
Almost  at  once  the  car  stopped  in  answer  to  a  shouted  com- 
mand ;  it  whirled  about  and  bore  down  on  her.  Felix  Mor- 
rison sprang  out  and  ran  to  her  with  outstretched  arms,  his 


426  The  Bent  Twig 

rich  voice  ringing  through  the  desolation  of  the  rain  and  the 
night — "  Sylvia !  Sylvia !    Are  you  safe  ?  " 

He  almost  carried  her  back  to  the  car,  lifted  her  in. 
There  were  wraps  there,  great  soft,  furry,  velvet  wraps 
which  he  cast  about  her,  murmuring  broken  ejaculations 
of  emotion,  of  pity,  of  relief — "  Oh,  your  hands,  how 
cold !  Sylvia,  how  could  you  ?  Here,  drink  this !  I've  been 
insane, — absolutely  out  of  my  mind !  Let  me  take  off  your 
hat — Oh,  your  poor   feet — I   was  on  my  way  to — I   was 

afraid  you  might  have Oh,  Sylvia,  Sylvia,  to  have  you 

safe ! "  She  tried  to  bring  to  mind  something  she  had  in 
tended  to  remember;  she  even  repeated  the  phrase  over  to 
herself,  "  It  was  an  ugly,  ugly  thing  to  have  married  Molly," 
but  she  knew  only  that  he  was  tenderness  and  sheltering 
care  and  warmth  and  food  and  safety.  She  drew  long 
quivering  breaths  like  a  child  coming  out  of  a  sobbing  fit. 

Then  before  there  was  time  for  more  thought,  the  car 
had  whirled  them  back  to  the  door,  where  Aunt  Victoria, 
outwardly  calm,  but  very  pale,  stood  between  the  concierge 
and  his  wife,  looking  out  into  the  rainy  deserted  street. 

At  the  touch  of  those  warm  embracing  arms,  at  that 
radiant  presence,  at  the  sound  of  that  relieved,  welcoming 
voice,  the  nightmare  of  the  Pantheon  faded  away  to  black- 
ness. .  .  . 

Half  an  hour  later,  she  sat,  fresh  from  a  hot  bath,  breath- 
ing out  delicately  a  reminiscence  of  recent  violet  water  and 
perfumed  powder;  fresh,  fine  under-linen  next  her. glowing 
skin ;  shining  and  refreshed,  in  a  gown  of  chiffon  and  satin  ; 
eating  her  first  mouthful  of  Yoshido's  ambrosial  soup. 

"  Why,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  was  saying.  "  I  went  out 
for  a  walk,  and  then  went  further  than  I  meant  to.  I've 
been  over  on  the  left  bank  part  of  the  time,  in  Notre  Dame 
and  the  Pantheon.  And  then  when  I  started  to  come  home 
it  took  longer  than  I  thought.    It's  so  apt  to,  you  know." 

"  Why  in  the  world,  my  dear,  did  you  walk  home  ?  "  cried 
Aunt  Victoria,  still  brooding  over  her  in  pitying  sympathy. 

"  I'd — I'd  lost  my  purse.     I  didn't  have  any  money." 

"  But  you  don't  pay  for  a  cab  till  you  come  to  the  end 


Sylvia  Drifts  with  the  Majority         427" 

of  your  journey !  You  could  have  stepped  into  a  taxi  and 
borrowed  the  money  of  the  concierge  here." 

Sylvia  was  immensely  disconcerted  by  her  rustic  naivete 
in  not  thinking  of  this  obvious  device.  "  Oh,  of  course ! 
How  could  I  have  been  so — but  I  was  tired  when  I  came 
to  start  home — I  was  very  tired — too  tired  to  think  clearly !  " 

This  brought  them  all  back  to  the  recollection  of  what 
had  set  her  off  on  her  walk.  There  was  for  a  time  rather 
a  strained  silence;  but  they  were  all  very  hungry — dinner 
was  two  hours  late — and  the  discussion  of  Yoshido's  roast 
duckling  was  anything  but  favorable  for  the  consideration 
of  painful  topics.  They  had  champagne  to  celebrate  her 
safe  escape  from  the  adventure.  To  the  sensation  of  per- 
fect ease  induced  by  the  well-chosen  dinner  this  added  a 
little  tingling  through  all  Sylvia's  nerves,  a  pleasant,  light, 
bright  titillation. 

All  might  have  gone  well  if,  after  the  dinner,  Felix  had 
not  stepped,  as  was  his  wont,  to  the  piano.  Sylvia  had 
been,  up  to  that  moment,  almost  wholly  young  animal,  given 
over  to  bodily  ecstasy,  of  which  not  the  least  was  the  agree- 
able warmth  on  her  silk-clad  ankle  as  she  held  her  slippered 
foot  to  the  fire. 

But  at  the  first  chords  something  else  in  her,  slowly,  with 
extreme  pain,  awoke  to  activity.  All  her  life  music  had 
spoken  a  language  to  which  she  could  not  shut  her  ears,  and 
now — her  face  clouded,  she  shifted  her  position,  she  held 
up  a  little  painted  screen  to  shield  her  face  from  the  fire, 
she  finally  rose  and  walked  restlessly  about  the  room. 
Every  grave  and  haunting  cadence  from  the  piano  brought 
to  her  mind,  flickering  and  quick,  like  fire,  a  darting  ques- 
tion, and  every  one  she  stamped  out  midway,  with  an  effort 
of  the  will. 

The  intimacy  between  Felix  and  Aunt  Victoria,  it  was 

strange  she  had  never  before  thought of  course  not — 

what  a  hideous  idea!  That  book,  back  in  Lydford,  with 
Horace  Gilbert's  name  on  the  fly-leaf,  and  Aunt  Victoria's 
cool,  casual  voice  as  she  explained,  "  Oh,  just  a  young 
architect  who  used  to "    Oh,  the  man  in  the  Pantheon 


428  The  Bent  Twig 

was  simply  brutalized  by  drugs;  he  did  not  know  what  he 
was  saying.  His  cool,  spectral  laugh  of  sanity  sounded 
faintly  in  her  ears  again. 

And  then,  out  of  a  mounting  foam  of  arpeggios,  there 
bloomed  for  her  a  new  idea,  solid  enough,  broad  enough, 
high  enough,  for  a  refuge  against  all  these  wolfish  fangs. 
She  sat  down  to  think  it  out,  hot  on  the  trail  of  an  answer, 
the  longed-for  answer. 

It  had  just  occurred  to  her  that  there  was  no  possible 
logical  connection  between  any  of  those  skulking  phantoms 
and  the  golden  lovely  things  they  tried  to  defile.  Even  if 
some  people  of  wealth  and  ease  and  leisure  were  not  as 
careful  about  moral  values  as  about  colors,  and  aesthetic 
harmonies — that  meant  nothing.  The  connection  was 
purely  fortuitous.  How  silly  she  had  been  not  to  see  that. 
Grant,  for  purposes  of  argument,  that  Aunt  Victoria  was 
self-centered  and  had  lived  her  life  with  too  little  regard 
for  its  effect  on  other  people, — grant  even  that  Felix  had, 
under  an  almost  overpowering  temptation,  not  kept  in  a 
matter  of  conduct  the  same  rigid  nicety  of  fastidiousness 
which  characterized  his  judgment  of  marbles — what  of  it? 
That  did  not  mean  that  one  could  only  be  fine  and  true  in 
conduct  by  giving  up  all  lovely  things  and  wearing  hair- 
shirts.  What  an  outgrown,  mediaeval  idea !  How  could  she 
have  been  for  a  moment  under  its  domination !  It  was  just 
that  old  Puritanism,  Spartanism  of  her  childhood,  which 
was  continually  reaching  up  its  bony  hand  from  the  grave 
where  she  had  interred  it. 

The  only  danger  came,  she  saw  it  now,  read  it  plainly 
and  clear-headedly  in  the  lives  of  the  two  people  with  her, 
the  only  danger  came  from  a  lack  of  proportion.  It  cer- 
tainly did  seem  to  be  possible  to  allow  the  amenities  and 
aesthetic  pleasures  to  become  so  important  that  moral  fine- 
ness must  stand  aside  till  they  were  safe.  But  anybody 
who  had  enough  intelligence  could  keep  his  head,  even  if 
the  temptation  was  alluring.  And  simply  because  there  was 
that  possible  danger,  why  not  enjoy  delightful  things  as 
long  as  they  did  not  run  counter  to  moral  fineness!    How 


Sylvia  Drifts  with  the  Majority         429 

absurd  to  think  there  was  any  reason  why  they  should; 
quite  the  contrary,  as  a  thousand  philosophers  attested. 
They  would  not  in  her  case,  at  least!  Of  course,  if  a  de- 
cision had  to  be  taken  between  the  two,  she  would  never 
hesitate — nevei  !  As  she  phrased  this  conviction  to  herself, 
she  turned  a  rL;g  on  her  white  slim  finger  and  had  a  throb 
of  pleasure  in  the  color  of  the  gem.  What  harmless,  im- 
personal pleasures  they  were!  How  little  they  hurt  any 
one !  And  as  to  this  business  of  morbidly  probing  into 
healthy  flesh,  of  insisting  on  going  back  of  everything, 
farther  than  any  one  could  possibly  go,  and  scrutinizing  the 
origin  of  every  dollar  that  came  into  your  hand  .  .  .  why, 
that  way  lay  madness !  As  soon  try  to  investigate  all  the 
past  occupants  of  a  seat  in  a  railway  before  using  it  for  a 
journey.  Modern  life  was  not  organized  that  way.  It  was 
too  complicated. 

Her  mind  rushed  on  excitedly,  catching  up  more  cer- 
tainty, more  and  more  reinforcements  to  her  argument  as 
it  advanced.  There  was,  therefore,  nothing  inherent  in  the 
manner  of  life  she  had  known  these  last  months  to  account 
for  what  seemed  ugly  underneath.  There  was  no  reason 
why  some  one  more  keenly  on  his  guard  could  not  live  as 
they  did  and  escape  sounding  that  dissonant  note ! 

The  music  stopped.  Morrison  turned  on  the  stool  and 
seeing  her  bent  head  and  moody  stare  at  the  fire,  sent  an 
imploring  glance  for  help  to  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith. 

Just  let  her  have  the  wealth  and  leisure  and  let  her  show 
how  worthily  she  could  use  it!  There  would  be  an 
achievement !  Sylvia  came  around  to  another  phase  of  her 
new  idea,  there  would  be  something  worth  doing,  to  show 
that  one  could  be  as  fine  and  true  in  a  palace  as  in  a  hut, — 
even  as  in  a  Vermont  farmhouse !  At  this,  suddenly  all 
thought  left  her.  Austin  Page  stood  before  her,  fixing 
on  her  his  clear  and  passionate  and  tender  eyes.  At  that 
dear  and  well-remembered  gaze,  her  lip  began  to  quiver  like 
a  child's,  and  her  eyes  filled. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  stirred  herself  with  the  effect  of  a 
splendid  ship  going  into  action  with  all  flags  flying.    "  Syl- 


430  The  Bent  Twig 

via  dear,"  she  said,  "  this  rain  tonight  makes  me  think  of 
a  new  plan.  It  will  very  likely  rain  for  a  week  or  more 
now.  Paris  is  abominable  in  the  rain.  What  do  you  say 
to  a  change?  Madeleine  Perth  was  telling  ne  this  after- 
noon that  the  White  Star  people  are  runnii  *  a  few  ships 
from  Portsmouth  by  way  of  Cherbourg  aroun  J  by  Gibraltar, 
through  the  Mediterranean  to  Naples.  That's  one  trip  your 
rolling-stone  of  an  aunt  has  never  taken,  and  I'd  rather 
like  to  add  it  to  my  collection.  We  could  be  in  Naples  in 
four  days  from  Cherbourg  and  spend  a  month  in  Italy, 
going  north  as  the  heat  arrived.  Felix — why  don't  yon 
come  along?  You've  been  wanting  to  see  the  new  low 
reliefs  in  the  Terme,  in  Rome  ?  " 

Sylvia's  heart,  like  all  young  hearts,  was  dazzled  almost 
to  blinking  by  the  radiance  shed  from  the  magic  word 
Italy.  She  turned,  looking  very  much  taken  aback  and 
bewildered,  but  with  light  in  her  eyes,  color  in  her  face. 

Morrison  burst  out :  "  Oh,  a  dream  realized !  Something 
to  live  on  all  one's  days,  the  pines  of  the  Borghese — the 
cypresses  of  the  Villa  Medici — roses  cascading  over  the 
walls  in  Rome,  the  view  across  the  Campagna  from  the 
terraces  at  Rocca  di  Papa " 

Sylvia  thought  rapidly  to  herself :  "  Austin  said  he  did 
not  want  me  to  answer  at  once.  He  said  he  wanted  me  to 
take  time — to  take  time!  I  can  decide  better,  make  more 
sense  out  of  everything,  if  I — after  I  have  thought  more, 
have  taken  more  time.  No,  I  am  not  turning  my  back  on 
him.    Only  I  must  have  more  time  to  think " 

Aloud  she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  Oh,  nothing 
could  be  lovelier !  " 

She  lay  in  her  warm,  clean  white  bed  that  night,  sleep- 
ing the  sound  sleep  of  the  healthy  young  animal  which  has 
been  wet  and  cold  and  hungry,  and  is  now  dry  and  warmed 
and  fed. 

Outside,  across  the  city,  on  his  bronze  pedestal,  the  tor- 
tured Thinker,  loyal  to  his  destiny,  still  strove  terribly 
against  the  limitations  of  his  ape-like  forehead. 


BOOK  IV 
THE  STRAIT  PATH 

CHAPTER  XL 
A  CALL  FROM  HOME 

It  was  quite  dark  when  they  arrived  in  the  harbor  at 
Naples ;  and  they  were  too  late  to  go  through  the  necessary 
formalities  of  harbor  entering.  In  company  with  several 
other  in-  and  outward-bound  steamers,  the  Carnatic  lay 
to  for  the  night.  Some  one  pointed  out  a  big  liner  which 
would  sail  for  New  York  the  next  morning,  lying  like  a 
huge,  gaily  lighted  island,  the  blare  of  her  band  floating 
over  the  still  water. 

Sylvia  slept  little  that  night,  missing  the  rolling  swing 
of  the  ship,  and  feeling  breathless  in  the  stifling  immobility 
of  the  cabin.  She  tossed  about  restlessly,  dozing  off  at 
intervals  and  waking  with  a  start  to  get  up  on  her  knees  and 
look  out  through  the  port-hole  at  the  lights  of  Naples 
blazing  steadily  in  their  semicircle.  She  tried  to  think 
several  times,  about  her  relations  to  Felix,  to  Austin — but 
nothing  came  to  her  mind  except  a  series  of  scenes  in  which 
they  had  figured,  scenes  quite  disconnected,  which  brought 
no  enlightenment  to  her. 

As  she  lay  awake  thus,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  feeling  in 
the  intense  silence  and  blackness  that  the  fluttering  of  her 
eyelids  was  almost  audible,  her  heart  beating  irregularly, 
now  slow,  now  fast,  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  was  begin- 
ning to  know  something  of  the  intensity  of  real  life — real 
grown-up  life.    She  was  astonished  to  enjoy  it  so  little. 

She  fell  at  last,  suddenly,  fathoms  deep  into  youthful 
slumber,  and  at  once  passed  out  from  tormented  darkness 

431 


432  The  Bent  Twig 

into  some  strange,  sunny,  wind-swept  place  on  a  height 
And  she  was  all  one  anguish  of  longing  for  Austin.  Anc1 
he  came  swiftly  to  her  and  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  on  the  lips.  And  it  was  as  it  had  been  when  she  was  a 
child  and  heard  music,  she  was  carried  away  by  a  great 
-swelling  tide  of  joy  .  .  .  But  dusk  began  to  fall  again: 
Austin  faded;  through  the  darkness  something  called  arn* 
called  to  her,  imperatively.  With  great  pain  she  struggled 
up  through  endless  stages  of  half-consciousness,  until  she 
was  herself  again,  Sylvia  Marshall,  heavy-eyed,  sitting  up 
in  her  berth  and  saying  aloud,  "  Yes,  what  is  it  ?  "  in  answer 
to  a  knocking  on  the  door. 

The  steward's  voice  answered,  announcing  that  the  first 
boat  for  shore  would  leave  in  an  hour.  Sylvia  sprang  out 
of  bed,  the  dream  already  nothing  more  than  confused 
brightness  in  her  mind.  By  the  time  she  was  dressed,  it 
had  altogether  gone,  and  she  only  knew  that  she  had  had  a 
restless  night.  She  went  out  on  the  deck,  longing  for  the 
tonic  of  pure  air.  The  morning  was  misty — it  had  rained 
during  the  night — and  clouds  hung  heavy  and  low  over  the 
city.  Out  from  this  gray  smother  the  city  gleamed  like  a 
veiled  opal.  Neither  Felix  nor  her  aunt  was  to  be  seen. 
When  she  went  down  to  breakfast,  after  a  brisk  tramp  back 
and  forth  across  the  deck,  she  was  rosy  and  dewy,  her  trium- 
phant youth  showing  no  sign  of  her  vigils.  She  was  saying 
to  herself:  "  Now  I've  come,  it's  too  idiotic  not  to  enjoy  it. 
I  shall  let  myself  go !  " 

Helene  attended  to  the  ladies'  packing  and  to  the  labeling 
and  care  of  the  baggage.  Empty-handed,  care-free,  feeling 
like  a  traveling  princess,  Sylvia  climbed  down  from  the 
great  steamer  into  a  dirty,  small  harbor-boat.  Aunt  Vic- 
toria sat  down  at  once  on  the  folding  camp-chair  which 
Helene  always  carried  for  her.  Sylvia  and  Felix  stood 
together  at  the  blunt  prow,  watching  the  spectacle  before 
them.  The  clouds  were  lifting  from  the  city  and  from 
Vesuvius,  and  from  Sylvia's  mind.  Her  spirits  rose  as  the 
boat  went  forward  into  the  strange,  foreign,  glowing  scene. 

The  oily  water  shimmered  in  smooth  heavings  as  the 


A  Call  from  Home  433 

clumsy  boat  advanced  upon  it  The  white  houses  on  the 
hills  gleamed  out  from  their  palms.  As  the  boat  came 
closer  to  the  wharf,  the  travelers  could  see  the  crowds  of 
foreign-looking  people,  with  swarthy  faces  and  cheap,  un- 
graceful clothes,  looking  out  at  the  boat  with  alert,  specula- 
tive, unwelcoming  eyes.  The  noise  of  the  city  streets, 
strange  to  their  ears  after  the  days  of  sea  silence,  rose  clat- 
tering, like  a  part  of  the  brilliance,  the  sparkle.  The  sun 
broke  through  the  clouds,  poured  a  flood  of  glory  on  the 
refulgent  city,  and  shone  hotly  on  the  pools  of  dirty  water 
caught  in  the  sunken  spots  of  the  uneven  stone  pavement. 

Aunt  Victoria  made  her  way  up  the  gang-plank  to  the 
landing  dock,  achieving  dignity  even  there.  Felix  sprang 
after  her,  to  hand  her  her  chair,  and  Helene  and  Sylvia  fol- 
lowed. Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  sat  down  at  once,  opening 
her  dark-purple  parasol,  the  tense  silk  of  which  was  changed 
by  the  hot  Southern  sun  into  an  iridescent  bubble.  "  We 
will  wait  here  till  the  steward  gets  our  trunks  out,"  she 
announced.  "  It  will  be  amusing  to  watch  the  people."  The 
four  made  an  oasis  of  aristocracy  in  the  seething,  shouting, 
frowzy,  gaudy,  Southern  crowd,  running  about  with  the 
scrambling,  undignified  haste  of  ants,  sweating,  gesticulating, 
their  faces  contorted  with  care  over  their  poor  belongings. 
Sylvia  was  acutely  conscious  of  her  significance  in  the 
scene.  She  was  also  fully  aware  that  Felix  missed  none  of 
the  contrast  she  made  with  the  other  women.  She  felt  at 
once  enhanced  and  protected  by  the  ignobly  dressed  crowd 
about  her.  Felix  was  right — in  America  there  could  be  no 
distinction,  there  was  no  background  for  it. 

The  scene  about  them  was  theatrically  magnificent.  In 
the  distance  Vesuvius  towered,  cloud-veiled  and  threaten- 
ing, the  harbor  shone  and  sparkled  in  the  sun,  the  vivid,  out- 
reaching  arms  of  Naples  clasped  the  jewel-like  water.  From 
it  all  Sylvia  extracted  the  most  perfect  distillation  of 
traveler's  joy.  She  felt  the  well-to-do  tourist's  care-free  de- 
tachment from  the  fundamentals  of  life,  the,  tourist's  sense 
that  everything  exists  for  the  purpose  of  being  a  sight  for 
him  to  see.     She  knew,  and  knew  with  delight,  the  wan- 


434  The  Bent  Twig 

derer's  lightened,  emancipated  sense  of  being  at  a  distance 
from  obligations,  that  cheerful  sense  of  an  escape  from  the 
emprisoning  solidarity  of  humanity  which  furnishes  the  zest 
of  life  for  the  tourist  and  the  tramp,  enabling  the  one  light- 
heartedly  to  offend  proprieties  and  the  other  casually  to 
commit  murder.  She  was  embarked  upon  a  moral  vaca- 
tion. She  was  out  of  the  Bastile  of  right  and  wrong.  She 
had  a  vision  of  what  freedom  from  entangling  responsi- 
bilities is  secured  by  traveling.  She  understood  her  aunt's 
classing  it  as  among  the  positive  goods  of  life. 

A  man  in  a  shabby  blue  uniform,  with  a  bundle  of  letters 
in  his  hand,  walked  past  them  towards  the  boat. 

"  Oh,  the  mail,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith.  u  There  may 
be  some  for  us."  She  beckoned  the  man  to  her,  and  said, 
"  Marshall-Smith  ?     Marshall  ?     Morrison  ?  " 

The  man  sorted  over  his  pile.  "  Cable  for  Miss  Mar- 
shall," he  said,  presenting  it  to  the  younger  lady  with  a 
bold,  familiar  look  of  admiration.  u  Letter  for  F.  Mor- 
rison: two  letters  for  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith."  Sylvia 
opened  her  envelope,  spread  out  the  folded  sheet  of  paper, 
and  read  what  was  scrawled  on  it,  with  no  realization  of 
the  meaning.  She  knew  only  that  the  paper,  Felix,  her 
aunt,  the  crowd,  vanished  in  thick  blackness,  through  which, 
much  later,  with  a  great  roaring  in  her  ears,  she  read,  as 
though  by  jagged  flashes  of  lightning :  "  Mother  very  ill. 
Come  home  at  once.     Judith." 

It  seemed  to  her  an  incalculably  long  time  between 
her  first  glance  at  the  words  and  her  understanding  of 
them,  but  when  she  emerged  from  the  blackness  and 
void,  into  the  flaunting  sunlight,  the  roaring  still  in  her 
ears,  the  paper  still  in  her  hands,  the  scrawled  words  still 
venomous  upon  it,  she  saw  that  not  a  moment  could  have 
passed,  for  Felix  and  her  aunt  were  unfolding  letters  of 
their  own,  their  eyes  beginning  to  run  quickly  over  the 
pages. 

Sylvia  stood  quite  still,  feeling  immeasurably  and  bitterly 
alone.    She  said  to  herself :  "  Mother  is  very  sick.    I  must 


A  Call  from  Home  435 

go  home  at  once.  Judith."  But  she  did  not  know  what  she 
said.  She  felt  only  an  impulse  to  run  wildly  away  from 
something  that  gave  her  intolerable  pain. 

Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  turned  over  a  page  of  her  letter, 
smiling  to  herself,  and  glanced  up  at  her  niece.  Her  smile 
was  smitten  from  her  lips.  Sylvia  had  a  fantastic  vision 
of  her  own  aspect  from  the  gaping  face  of  horror  with 
which  her  aunt  for  an  instant  reflected  it.  She  had  never 
before  seen  Aunt  Victoria  with  an  unprepared  and  discom 
posed  countenance.  It  was  another  feature  of  the  night- 
mare. 

For  suddenly  everything  resolved  itself  into  a  bad  dream, 
— her  aunt  crying  out,  Helene  screaming  and  running  to  her, 
Felix  snatching  the  telegram  from  her  and  reading  it  aloud 
— it  seemed  to  Sylvia  that  she  had  heard  nothing  for 
years  but  those  words,  "  Mother  very  sick.  Come  home 
at  once.  Judith."  She  heard  them  over  and  over  after  his 
voice  was  silent.  Through  their  constant  echoing  roar  in 
her  ears  she  heard  but  dimly  the  babel  of  talk  that  arose — 
Aunt  Victoria  saying  that  she  could  not  of  course  leave  at 
once  because  no  passage  had  been  engaged,  Helene  foolishly 
offering  smelling-salts,  Felix  darting  off  to  get  a  carriage 
to  take  them  to  the  hotel  where  she  could  be  out  of  the 
crowd  and  they  could  lay  their  plans — "  Oh,  my  poor  dear ! 
— but  you  may  have  more  reassuring  news  tomorrow,  you 
know,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall-Smith  soothingly. 

The  girl  faced  her  aunt  outraged.  She  thought  she  cried 
out  angrily,  "  tomorrow ! "  but  she  did  not  break  her  silence. 
She  was  so  torn  by  the  storm  within  her  that  she  had  no 
breath  for  recriminations.  She  turned  and  ran  rapidly  some 
distance  away  to  the  edge  of  the  wharf,  where  some  small 
rowboats  hung  bobbing,  their  owners  sprawled  on  the  seats, 
smoking  cigarettes  and  chattering.  Sylvia  addressed  the 
one  nearest  her  in  a  strong,  imperious  voice.  "  I  want  you 
to  take  me  out  to  that  steamer,"  she  said,  pointing  out  to  the 
liner  in  the  harbor. 

The  man  looked  up  at  her  blankly,  his  laughing,  im- 
pertinent brown  face  sobered  at  once  by  the  sight  of  her 


436  The  Bent  Twig 

own.  He  made  a  reply  in  Italian,  raising  his  shoulders. 
Some  ill-dressed,  loafing  stragglers  on  the  wharf  drew  near 
Sylvia  with  an  indolent  curiosity.  She  turned  to  them  and 
asked,  "  Do  any  of  you  speak  English  ?  "  although  it  was 
manifestly  inconceivable  that  any  of  those  typical  Neapoli- 
tans should.  One  of  them  stepped  forward,  running  his 
hand  through  greasy  black  curls.  "  I  kin,  lady,"  he  said  with 
a  fluent,  vulgar  New  York  accent.     "  What  ye  want  ?  " 

"  Tell  that  man,"  said  Sylvia,  her  lips  moving  stiffly,  "  to 
take  me  out  to  the  ship  that  is  to  leave  for  America  this 
morning — and  now — this  minute,  I  may  be  late  now !  " 

After  a  short  impassioned  colloquy,  the  loafer  turned 
to  her  and  reported :  "  He  says  if  he  took  you  out,  you 
couldn't  git  on  board.  Them  big  ships  ain't  got  no  way 
for  folks  in  little  boats  to  git  on.  And  he'd  ask  you  thirty 
lire,  anyhow.     That's  a  fierce  price.     Say,  if  you'll  wait  a 

minute,  I  can  get  you  a  man  that'll  do  it  for "     Mrs. 

Marshall-Smith  and  Helene  had  followed,  and  now  broke 
through  the  line  of  ill-smelling  loungers.  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  took  hold  of  her  niece's  arm  firmly,  and  began  to 
draw  her  away  with  a  dignified  gesture.  "  You  don't  know 
what  you  are  doing,  child,"  she  said  with  a  peremptory 
accent  of  authority.  "  You  are  beside  yourself.  Come 
with  me  at  once.     This  is  no " 

Sylvia  did  not  resist  her.  She  ignored  her.  In  fact, 
she  did  not  understand  a  word  that  her  aunt  said.  She 
shook  off  the  older  woman's  hand  with  one  thrust  of  her 
powerful  young  arm,  and  gathering  her  skirts  about  her, 
leaped  down  into  the  boat.  She  took  out  her  purse  and 
showed  the  man  a  fifty-lire  bill.  "  Row  fast !  Fast !  "  she 
motioned  to  him,  sitting  down  in  the  stern  and  fixing  her 
eyes  on  the  huge  bulk  of  the  liner,  black  upon  the  brilliance 
of  the  sunlit  water.  She  heard  her  name  called  from  the 
wharf  and  turned  her  face  backward,  as  the  light  craft  began 
to  move  jerkily  away. 

Felix  had  come  up  and  now  stood  between  Mrs.  Marshall- 
Smith  and  her  maid,  both  of  whom  were  passionately  ap- 
pealing to  him!     He  looked  over  their  heads,  saw  the  girl 


A  Call  from  Home  437 

already  a  boat-length  from  the  wharf,  and  gave  a  gesture 
of  utter  consternation.  He  ran  headlong  to  the  edge  of  the 
dock  and  again  called  her  name  loudly,  "  Sylvia!  Sylvia!" 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  quality  of  that  cry.  It  was  the 
voice  of  a  man  who  sees  the  woman  he  loves  departing  from 
him,  and  who  wildly,  imperiously  calls  her  back  to  him. 
But  she  did  not  return.  The  boat  was  still  so  close  that 
she  could  look  deeply  into  his  eyes.  Through  all  her  tumult 
of  horror,  there  struck  cold  to  Sylvia's  heart  the  knowledge 
that  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  stranger.  The  blow  that  had 
pierced  her  had  struck  into  a  quivering  center  of  life,  so 
deep  within  her,  that  only  something  as  deep  as  its  terrible 
suffering  could  seem  real.  The  man  who  stood  there,  so 
impotently  calling  to  her,  belonged  to  another  order  of 
things — things  which  a  moment  ago  had  been  important  to 
her,  and  which  now  no  longer  existed.  He  had  become 
for  her  as  remote,  as  immaterial  as  the  gaudy  picturesque- 
ness  of  the  scene  in  which  he  stood.  She  gave  him  a  long 
strange  look,  and  made  a  strange  gesture,  a  gesture  of 
irrevocable  leave-taking.  She  turned  her  face  again  to  the 
sea,  and  did  not  look  back. 

They  approached  the  liner,  and  Sylvia  saw  some  dark 
heads  looking  over  the  railing  at  her.  Her  boatman  rowed 
around  the  stern  to  the  other  side,  where  the  slanting  stairs 
used  in  boarding  the  harbor-boats  still  hung  over  the  side. 
The  landing  was  far  above  their  heads.  Sylvia  stood  up 
and  cried  loudly  to  the  dull  faces,  staring  down  at  her  from 
the  steerage  deck.  "  Send  somebody  down  on  the  stairs 
to  speak  to  me."  There  was  a  stir ;  a  man  in  a  blue  uniform 
came  and  looked  over  the  edge,  and  went  away.  After  a 
moment,  an  officer  in  white  ran  down  the  stairs  to  the 
hanging  landing  with  the  swift,  sure  footing  of  a  seaman. 
Sylvia  stood  up  again,  turning  her  white  face  up  to  him, 
her  eyes  blazing  in  the  shadow  of  her  hat.  "  I've  just 
heard  that  my  mother  is  very  sick,  and  I  must  get  back  to 
America  at  once.  If  you  will  let  down  the  rope  ladder,  I 
can  climb  up.  I  must  go!  I  have  plenty  of  money.  I 
must!" 


438  The  Bent  Twig 

The  officer  stared,  shook  his  head,  and  ran  back  up  the 
stairs,  disappearing  into  the  black  hole  in  the  ship's  side. 
The  dark,  heavy  faces  continued  to  hang  over  the  railing, 
staring  fixedly  down  at  the  boat  with  a  steady,  incurious 
gaze.  Sylvia's  boatman  balanced  his  oar-handles  on  his 
knees,  rolled  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it.  The  boat  swayed 
up  and  down  on  the  shimmering,  heaving  roll  of  the  water, 
although  the  ponderous  ship  beside  it  loomed  motionless 
as  a  rock.  The  sun  beat  down  on  Sylvia's  head  and  up  in 
her  face  from  the  molten  water  till  she  felt  sick,  but  when 
another  officer  in  white,  an  elderly  man  with  an  impassive, 
bearded  face,  came  down  the  stairs,  she  rose  up,  instantly 
forgetful  of  everything  but  her  demand.  She  called  out  her 
message  again,  straining  her  voice  until  it  broke,  poised  so 
impatiently  in  the  little  boat,  swinging  under  her  feet,  that 
she  seemed  almost  about  to  spring  up  towards  the  two  men 
leaning  over  to  catch  her  words.  When  she  finished,  the 
older  man  nodded,  the  younger  one  ran  back  up  the  stairs, 
and  returned  with  a  rope  ladder. 

Sylvia's  boatman  stirred  himself  with  an  ugly  face  of 
misgiving.  He  clutched  at  her  arm,  and  made  close  before 
her  face  the  hungry,  Mediterranean  gesture  of  fingering 
money.  She  took  out  her  purse,  gave  him  the  fifty-lire  note, 
and  catching  at  the  ladder  as  it  was  flung  down,  disregard- 
ing the  shouted  commands  of  the  men  above  her  to  "  wait !  " 
she  swung  herself  upon  it,  climbing  strongly  and  surely  in 
spite  of  her  hampering  skirts. 

The  two  men  helped  her  up,  alarmed  and  vexed  at  the 
risk  she  had  taken.  They  said  something  about  great 
crowds  on  the  boat,  and  that  only  in  the  second  cabin  was 
there  a  possibility  for  accommodations.  If  she  answered 
them,  she  did  not  know  what  she  said.  She  followed  the 
younger  man  down  a  long  corridor,  at  first  dark  and  smell- 
ing of  hemp,  later  white,  bright  with  electric  light,  smelling 
strongly  of  fresh  paint,  stagnant  air,  and  machine-oil.  They 
emerged  in  a  round  hallway  at  the  foot  of  a  staircase.  The 
officer  went  to  a  window  for  a  conference  with  the  official 
behind  it,  and  returned  to  Sylvia  to  say  that  there  was  no 


A  Call  from  Home  439 

room,  not  even  a  single  berth  vacant.  Some  shabby 
woman-passengers  with  untidy  hair  and  crumpled  clothes 
drew  near,  looking  at  her  with  curiosity.  Sylvia  appealed 
to  them,  crying  out  again,  "  My  mother  is  very  sick  and  I 
must  go  back  to  America  at  once.    Can't  any  of  you — can't 

y0U ?"  she  stopped,  catching  at  the  banisters.     Her 

knees  were  giving  way  under  her.  A  woman  with  a  flabby 
pale  face  and  disordered  gray  hair  sprang  towards  her  and 
took  her  in  her  arms  with  a  divine  charity.  et  You  can  have 
half  my  bed !  "  she  cried,  drawing  Sylvia's  head  down  on 
her  shoulder.  "  Poor  girl !  Poor  girl !  I  lost  my  only 
son  last  year !  " 

Her  accent,  her  look,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  some  emana- 
tion of  deep  humanity  from  her  whole  person,  reached  Syl- 
via's inner  self,  the  first  message  that  had  penetrated  to 
that  core  of  her  being  since  the  deadly,  echoing  news  of  the 
telegram.  Upon  her  icy  tension  poured  a  flood  of  dis- 
solving warmth.  Her  hideous  isolation  was  an  illusion. 
This  plain  old  woman,  whom  she  had  never  seen  before, 
was  her  sister,  her  blood-kin, — they  were  both  human 
beings.  She  gave  a  cry  and  flung  her  arms  about  the  other's 
neck,  clinging  to  her  like  a  person  falling  from  a  great 
height,  the  tears  at  last  streaming  down  her  face. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
HOME  AGAIN 

The  trip  home  passed  like  a  long  shuddering  bad  dream 
in  which  one  waits  eternally,  bound  hand  and  foot,  for  a 
blow  which  does  not  fall.  Somehow,  before  the  first  day 
was  over,  an  unoccupied  berth  was  found  for  Sylvia,  in  a 
tiny  corner  usually  taken  by  one  of  the  ship's  servants. 
Sylvia  accepted  this  dully.  She  was  but  half  alive,  all  her 
vital  forces  suspended  until  the  journey  should  be  over. 
The  throbbing  of  the  engines  came  to  seem  like  the  beat- 
ing of  her  own  heart,  and  she  lay  tensely  in  her  berth 
for  hours  at  a  time,  feeling  that  it  was  partly  her  energy 
which  was  driving  the  ship  through  the  waters.  She 
only  thought  of  accomplishing  the  journey,  covering  the 
miles  which  lay  before  her.  From  what  lay  at  the  end 
she  shrank  back,  returning  again  to  her  hypnotic  absorption 
in  the  throbbing  of  the  engines.  The  old  woman  who  had 
offered  to  share  her  berth  had  disappeared  at  the  first  rough 
water  and  had  been  invisible  all  the  trip.  Sylvia  did  not 
think  of  her  again.  That  was  a  recollection  which  with  all 
its  sacred  significance  was  to  come  back  later  to  Sylvia's 
maturer  mind. 

The  ship  reached  New  York  late  in  the  afternoon,  and 
docked  that  night.  Sylvia  stood  alone,  in  her  soiled  wrinkled 
suit,  shapeless  from  constant  wear,  her  empty  hands  clutch- 
ing at  the  railing,  and  was  the  first  passenger  to  dart  down 
the  second-class  gang-plank.  She  ran  to  see  if  there  were 
letters  or  a  telegram  for  her. 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  telegram  for  you,"  said  the  steward,  hold- 
ing out  a  sealed  envelope  to  her.  "  It  came  on  with  the 
pilot  and  ought  to  have  been  given  you  before." 

She  took  the  envelope,  but  was  unable  to  open  it.     The 

^40 


Home  Again  441 

arc  lights  flared  and  winked  above  her  in  the  high  roof 
of  the  wharf;  the  crowds  of  keen-faced,  hard-eyed  men 
and  women  in  costly,  neat-fitting  clothing  were  as  oblivious 
of  her  and  as  ferociously  intent  on  their  own  affairs  as  the 
shabby,  noisy  crowd  she  had  left  in  Naples,  brushing  by 
her  as  though  she  were  a  part  of  the  wharf  as  they  bent  over 
their  trunks  anxiously,  and  locked  them  up  with  determina- 
tion. It  seemed  to  Sylvia  that  she  could  never  break  the 
spell  of  fear  which  bound  her  fast.  Minute  after  minute 
dragged  by,  and  she  still  stood,  very  white,  very  sick. 

She  was  aware  that  some  one  stood  in  front  of  her, 
looking  into  her  face,  and  she  recognized  one  of  the  ship's 
officials  whom  she  had  noticed  from  a  distance  on  the  ship, 
an  under-officer,  somehow  connected  with  the  engines,  who 
had  sat  at  table  with  the  second-class  passengers.  He  was 
a  burly,  red-faced  man,  with  huge  strong  hands  and  a 
bald  head. 

He  looked  at  her  now  for  a  moment  with  an  intent  kind- 
ness, and  taking  her  arm  led  her  a  step  to  a  packing-case  on 
which  he  made  her  sit  down.  At  the  break  in  her  immo- 
bility, a  faintness  came  over  Sylvia.  The  man  bent  over  her 
and  began  to  fan  her  with  his  cap.  A  strong  smell  of  stale 
and  cheap  tobacco  reached  Sylvia  from  all  of  his  obese 
person,  but  his  vulgar,  ugly  face  expressed  a  profoundly 
self- forgetful  concern.  "  There,  feelin'  better?"  he  asked, 
his  eyes  anxiously  on  hers.  The  man  looked  at  the  en- 
velope comprehendingly :  "  Oh — bad  news "  he  mur- 
mured. Sylvia  opened  her  hand  and  showed  him  that  tt 
had  not  been  opened.  "  I  haven't  looked  at  it  yet,"  she  said 
pitifully. 

The  man  made  an  inarticulate  murmur  of  pity — put  out 
his  thick  red  fingers,  took  the  message  gently  from  her  hand, 
and  opened  it.  As  he  read  she  searched  his  face  with  an 
impassioned  scrutiny. 

When  he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  paper,  she  saw  in 
them,  in  that  grossly  fleshy  countenance,  such  infinite  pity 
that  even  her  swift  intuition  of  its  meaning  was  not  sa 
swift  as  to  reach  her  heart  first.     The  blow  did  not  reach 


442  The  Bent  Twig 

her  naked  and  unprotected  in  the  solitude  of  her  egotism, 
as  it  had  at  Naples.  Confusedly,  half-resentfully,  but  irre- 
sistibly she  knew  that  she  did  not — could  not — stand  alone, 
was  not  the  first  thus  to  be  struck  down.  This  knowledge 
brought  the  tonic  summons  to  courage.  She  held  out  her 
hand  unflinchingly,  and  stood  up  as  she  read  the  message, 
"  Mother  died  this  morning  at  dawn."  The  telegram  was 
dated  three  days  before.    She  was  now  two  days  from  home. 

She  looked  up  at  the  man  before  her  and  twice  tried  to 
speak  before  she  could  command  her  voice.  Then  she  said 
quite  steadily :  "  I  live  in  the  West.  Can  you  tell  me  any- 
thing about  trains  to  Chicago  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  with  ye,  to  th'  train,"  he  said,  taking  her 
arm  and  moving  forward.  Two  hours  later  his  vulgar,  ugly, 
compassionate  face  was  the  last  she  saw  as  the  train  moved 
out  of  the  station.  He  did  not  seem  a  stranger  to  Sylvia. 
She  saw  that  he  was  more  than  middle-aged,  he  must  have 
lost  his  mother,  there  must  have  been  many  deaths  in  his 
past.  He  seemed  more  familiar  to  her  than  her  dearest 
friends  had  seemed  before;  but  from  now  on  she  was  to 
feel  closer  to  every  human  being  than  before  to  her  most 
loved.  A  great  breach  had  been  made  in  the  wall  of  her 
life — the  wall  which  had  hidden  her  fellows  from  her.  She 
saw  them  face  the  enigma  as  uncomprehendingly,  as  help- 
lessly as  she,  and  she  felt  the  instinct  of  terror  to  huddle 
close  to  others,  even  though  they  feel — because  they  feel — a 
terror  as  unrelieved.  It  was  not  that  she  loved  her  fellow- 
beings  more  from  this  hour,  rather  that  she  felt,  to  the  root 
of  her  being,  her  inevitable  fellowship  with  them. 

The  journey  home  was  almost  as  wholly  a  period  of  sus- 
pended animation  for  Sylvia  as  the  days  on  the  ocean  had 
been.  She  had  read  the  telegram  at  last;  now  she  knew 
what  had  happened,  but  she  did  not  yet  know  what  it 
meant.  She  felt  that  she  would  not  know  what  it  meant 
until  she  reached  home.  How  could  her  mother  be  dead? 
What  did  it  mean  to  have  her  mother  dead? 

She  said  the  grim  words  over  and  over,  handling  them 
with   heartsick    recklessness   as   a   desperate   man   might 


Home  Again  443 

handle  the  black,  ugly  objects  with  smoking  fuses  which  he 
knows  carry  death.  But  for  Sylvia  no  explosion  came. 
No  ravaging  perception  of  the  meaning  of  the  words  reached 
her  strained  inner  ear.  She  said  them  over  and  over,  the 
sound  of  them  was  horrifying  to  her,  but  in  her  heart  she 
did  not  believe  them.  Her  mother,  her  mother  could  not 
die! 

There  was  no  one,  of  course,  at  the  La  Chance  station  to 
meet  her,  and  she  walked  out  through  the  crowd  and  took 
the  street-car  without  having  seen  a  familiar  face.  It  was 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  then,  and  six  when  she  walked 
up  the  dusty  country  road  and  turned  in  through  the  gate 
in  the  hedge.  There  was  home — intimately  a  part  of  her 
in  every  detail  of  its  unforgotten  appearance.  The  pines 
stood  up  strong  in  their  immortal  verdure,  the  thick  golden 
hush  of  the  summer  afternoon  lay  like  an  enchantment  about 
the  low  brown  house.  And  something  horrible,  unspeak- 
ably horrible  had  happened  there.  Under  the  forgotten 
dust  and  grime  of  her  long  railway  journey,  she  was  deadly 
pale  as  she  stepped  up  on  the  porch.  Judith  came  to  the 
door,  saw  her  sister,  opened  her  arms  with  a  noble  gesture, 
and  clasped  Sylvia  to  her  in  a  strong  and  close  embrace. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken.  The  two  clung  to  each  other 
silently,  Sylvia  weeping  incessantly,  holding  fast  to  the 
dear  human  body  in  her  arms,  feeling  herself  dissolved  in 
a  very  anguish  of  love  and  pain.  Her  wet  cheek  was  pressed 
against  Judith's  lips,  the  tears  rained  down  in  a  torrent.  All 
the  rich,  untapped  strength  of  her  invincible  youth  was  in 
that  healthful  flood  of  tears. 

There  were  none  such  in  the  eyes  of  Professor  Marshall 
as  he  came  down  the  stairs  to  greet  his  daughter.  Sylvia 
was  immeasurably  shocked  by  his  aspect.  He  did  not  look 
like  her  father.  She  sought  in  vain  in  that  gray  counte- 
nance for  any  trace  of  her  father's  expression.  He  came 
forward  with  a  slow,  dragging  step,  and  kissed  his  daugh- 
ter, taking  her  hand — his,  she  noticed,  felt  like  a  sick  man's, 
parched,  the  skin  like  a  dry  husk.  He  spoke,  in  a.  voice 
which  had  no  resonance,   the  first  words  that  had  been 


444  The  Bent  Twig 

uttered:  "You  must  be  very  tired,  Sylvia.  You  would 
better  go  and  lie  down.  Your  sister  will  go  with  you." 
He  himself  turned  away  and  walked  slowly  towards  the 
open  door.  Sylvia  noticed  that  he  shuffled  his  feet  as  he 
walked. 

Judith  drew  Sylvia  away  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  slant- 
ceilinged  room,  and  the  two  sat  down  on  the  bed,  side  by 
side,  with  clasped  hands.  Judith  now  told  briefly  the  out- 
line of  what  had  happened.  Sylvia  listened,  straining  her 
swollen  eyes  to  see  her  sister's  face,  wiping  away  the  tears 
which  ran  incessantly  down  her  pale,  grimy  cheeks,  re- 
pressing her  sobs  to  listen,  although  they  broke  out  in  one 
burst  after  another.  Her  mother  had  gone  down  very 
suddenly  and  they  had  cabled  at  once — then  she  grew  better 
— she  had  been  unspeakably  brave — fighting  the  disease  by 
sheer  will-poweF — she  had  conquered  it — she  was  gaining — 
they  were  sorry  they  had  cabled  Sylvia — she  had  not  known 
she  was  going  to  die — none  of  them  had  dreamed  she  was 
going  to  die — suddenly  as  the  worst  of  her  disease  had 
spent  itself  and  the  lungs "Vere  beginning  to  clear — sud- 
denly her  heart  had  given  way,  and  before  the  nurse  could 
call  her  husband  and  children  to  her,  she  was  gone.  They 
had  been  there  under  the  same  roof,  and  had  not  been  with 
her  at  the  last.  The  last  time  they  had  seen  her,  she  was 
alive  and  smiling  at  them — such  a  brave,  wan  shadow  of  her 
usual  smile — for  a  few  moments  they  went  about  their 
affairs,  full  of  hope — and  when  they  entered  the  sick- 
room again 

Sylvia  could  bear  no  more,  screaming  out,  motioning 
Judith  imperiously  to  stop ; — she  began  to  understand  what 
had  happened  to  her;  the  words  she  had  repeated  so  dully 
were  like  thunder  in  her  ears.     Her  mother  was  dead. 

Judith  took  her  sister  again  in  her  arms,  holding  her 
close,  as  though  she  were  the  older.  Sylvia  was  weeping 
again,  the  furious,  healing,  inexhaustible  tears  of  youth. 
To  both  the  sisters  it  seemed  that  they  were  passing  an 
hour  of  supreme  bitterness ;  but  their  strong  young  hearts, 
clinging  with  unconscious  tenacity  to  their  right  to  joy, 


Home  Again  445 

were  at  that  moment  painfully  opening  and  expanding  be- 
yond the  narrow  bounds  of  childhood.  Henceforth  they 
were  to  be  great  enough  to  harbor  joy — a  greater  joy — and 
sorrow,  side  by  side. 

Moreover,  as  though  their  action-loving  mother  were  still 
watching  over  them,  they  found  themselves  confronted  at 
once  with  an  inexorable  demand  for  their  strength  and 
courage. 

Judith  detached  herself,  and  said  in  a  firm  voice :  "  Sylvia, 
you  mustn't  cry  any  more.    We  must  think  what  to  do." 

As  Sylvia  looked  at  her  blankly,  she  went  on :  "  Somehow 
Lawrence  must  be  taken  away  for  a  while — until  Father's 
— either  you  or  I  must  go  with  him  and  stay,  and  the  other 
one  be  here  with  Father  until  he's — he's  more  like  him- 
self." 

Sylvia,  fresh  from  the  desolation  of  solitude  in  sorrow, 
cried  out :  "  Oh,  Judith,  how  can  you !  Now's  the  time  for 
us  all  to  stay  together !    Why  should  we ?  " 

Judith  went  to  the  door  and  closed  it  before  answering, 
a  precaution  so  extraordinary  in  that  house  of  frank  open- 
ness that  Sylvia  was  struck  into  silence  by  it.  Standing  by 
the  door,  Judith  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  You  didn't  notice — 
anything — about  Father  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  he  looks  ill.    He  is  so  pale — he  frightened  me !  " 

Judith  looked  down  at  the  floor  and  was  silent  a  moment. 
Sylvia's  heart  began  to  beat  fast  with  a  new  foreboding. 
"  Why,  what  is  the  matter  with "  she  began. 

Judith  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  I  don't  know 
what  to  do  I "  she  said  despairingly. 

No  phrase  coming  from  Judith  could  have  struck  a  more 
piercing  alarm  into  her  sister's  heart.  She  ran  to  Judith, 
pulled  her  hands  down,  and  looked  into  her  face  anxiously. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Judy — what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Why — it's  five  days  now  since  Mother  died,  three  days 
since  the  funeral — and  Father  has  hardly  eaten  a  mouthful 
— and  I  don't  think  he's  slept  at  all.  I  know  he  hasn't  taken 
his  clothes  off.  And — and — "  she  drew  Sylvia  again  to 
the  bed,  and  sat  down  beside  her,  "  he  says  such  things  .  .  « 


446  The  Bent  Twig 

the  night  after  Mother  died  Lawrence  had  cried  so  I  was 
afraid  he  would  be  sick,  and  I  got  him  to  bed  and  gave 
him  some  hot  milk," — the  thought  flashed  from  one  to  the 
other  almost  palpably,  "  That  is  what  Mother  would  have 
done  " — "  and  he  went  to  sleep — he  was  perfectly  worn  out. 
I  went  downstairs  to  find  Father.  It  was  after  midnight. 
He  was  walking  around  the  house  into  one  room  after 
another  and  out  on  the  porch  and  even  out  in  the  garden, 
as  fast  as  he  could  walk.  He  looked  so "  She  shud- 
dered. "  I  went  up  to  him  and  said,  *  Father,  Father,  what 
are  you  doing  ? '  He  never  stopped  walking  an  instant,  but 
he  said,  as  though  I  was  a  total  stranger  and  we  were  in  a 
railway  station  or  somewhere  like  that,  '  I  am  looking  for 
my  wife.  I  expect  to  come  across  her  any  moment,  but 
I  can't  seem  to  remember  the  exact  place  I  was  to  meet 

her.     She  must  be  somewhere  about,  and  I  suppose ' 

and  then,  Sylvia,  before  I  could  help  it,  he  opened  the  door 
to  Mother's   room  quick — and  the  men  were   there,  and 

the    coffin "      She    stopped    short,    pressing   her  hand 

tightly  over  her  mouth  to  stop  its  quivering.  Sylvia  gazed  at 
her  in  horrified  silence. 

After  a  pause,  Judith  went  on :  "  He  turned  around  and 
ran  as  fast  as  he  could  up  the  stairs  to  his  study  and 
locked  the  door.  He  locked  me  out — the  night  after  Mother 
died.  I  called  and  called  to  him — he  didn't  answer.  I  was 
afraid  to  call  very  loud  for  fear  of  waking  Lawrence.  I've 
had  to  think  of  Lawrence  too."  She  stopped  again  to  draw 
a  long  breath.  She  stopped  and  suddenly  reached  out  im- 
ploring hands  to  hold  fast  to  Sylvia.  "  I'm  so  glad  you 
have  come !  "  she  murmured. 

This  from  Judith  ran  like  a  galvanic  shock  through  Syl- 
via's sorrow-sodden  heart.  She  sat  up,  aroused  as  she  had 
never  been  before  to  a  stern  impulse  to  resist  her  emotion, 
to  fight  it  down.  She  clasped  Judith's  hand  hard,  and  felt 
the  tears  dry  in  her  eyes.  Judith  went  on :  "  If  it  hadn't 
been  for  Lawrence — he's  sick  as  it  is.  I've  kept  him  in  his 
room — twice  when  he's  been  asleep  I've  managed  to  get 
Father  to  eat  something  and  lie  down — there  seem  to  be 


Home  Again  447 

times  when  he's  so  worn  out  that  he  doesn't  know  what 
he's  doing.  But  it  comes  back  to  him.  One  night  I  had 
just  persuaded  him  to  lie  down,  when  he  sat  up  again 
with  that  dreadful  face  and  said  very  loud :  '  Where  is 
my  wife?  Where  is  Barbara?'  That  was  on  the  night 
after  the  funeral.  And  the  next  day  he  came  to  me,  out 
in  the  garden,  and  said, — he  never  seems  to  know  who 
I  am :  '  I  don't  mind  the  separation  from  my  wife,  you 
understand — it's  not  that — I'm  not  a  child,  I  can  endure 
that — but  I  must  know  where  she  is.  I  must  know  where 
she  is ! '  He  said  it  over  and  over,  until  his  voice  got 
so  loud  he  seemed  to  hear  it  himself  and  looked  around — 
and  then  he  went  back  into  the  house  and  began  walking 
all  around,  opening  and  shutting  all  the  doors.  What 
I'm  afraid  of  is  his  meeting  Lawrence  and  saying  some- 
thing like  that.  Lawrence  would  go  crazy.  I  thought, 
as  soon  as  you  came,  you  could  take  him  away  to  the 
Helman  farm — the  Helmans  have  been  so  good — and  Mrs. 
Helman  offered  to  take  Lawrence — only  he  oughtn't  to 
be  alone — he  needs  one  of  us " 

Judith  was  quiet  now,  and  though  very  pale,  spoke  with 
her  usual  firmness.  Sylvia  too  felt  herself  iron  under  the 
pressure  of  her  responsibilities.  She  said :  "  Yes,  I  see.  All 
right — I'll  go,"  and  the  two  went  together  into  Lawrence's 
room.  He  was  lying  on  the  bed,  his  face  in  the  pillows.  At 
the  sound  of  their  steps  he  turned  over  and  showed  a  pitiful 
white  face.  He  got  up  and  moved  uncertainly  towards 
Sylvia,  sinking  into  her  arms  and  burying  his  face  on  her 
shoulder. 

But  a  little  later  when  their  plan  was  told  him,  he  turned 
to  Judith  with  a  cry :  "  No,  you  go  with  me,  Judy !  I  want 
you!    You  '  know' — about  it." 

Over  his  head  the  sisters  looked  at  each  other  with 
questioning  eyes ;  and  Sylvia  nodded  her  consent.  Lawrence 
had  always  belonged  to  Judith. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

"  Strange  that  we  creatures  of  the  petty  ways, 
Poor  prisoners  behind  these  fleshly  bars, 
Can  sometimes  think  us  thoughts  with  God  ablaze, 
Touching  the  fringes  of  the  outer  stars." 

And  so  they  went  away,  Lawrence  very  white,  stooping 
with  the  weight  of  his  suitcase,  his  young  eyes,  blurred  and 
red,  turned  upon  Judith  with  an  infinite  confidence  in  her 
strength.  Judith  herself  was  pale,  but  her  eyes  were  dry 
and  her  lips  firm  in  her  grave,  steadfast  face,  so  like  her 
mother's,  except  for  the  absence  of  the  glint  of  humor.  Syl- 
via kissed  her  good-bye,  feeling  almost  a  little  fear  of  her 
resolute  sister;  but  as  she  watched  them  go  down  the  path, 
and  noted  the  appealing  drooping  of  the  boy  towards  Judith, 
Sylvia  was  swept  with  a  great  wave  of  love  and  admira- 
tion— and  courage. 

She  turned  to  face  the  difhcult  days  and  nights  before 
her  and  forced  herself  to  speak  cheerfully  to  her  father, 
who  sat  in  a  chair  on  the  porch,  watching  the  departing 
travelers  and  not  seeing  them.  "  How  splendid  Judith  is !  " 
she  cried,  and  v/ent  on  with  a  break  in  the  voice  she  tried 
to  control :  "  She  will  take  Mother's  place  for  us  all ! " 

Her  father  frowned  slightly,  as  though  she  had  inter- 
rupted him  in  some  effort  where  concentration  was  neces- 
sary, but  otherwise  gave  no  sign  that  he  heard  her. 

Sylvia  watched  him  anxiously  through  the  window. 
Presently  she  saw  him  relax  from  his  position  of  strained 
attention  with  a  great  sigh,  almost  a  groan,  and  lean  back 
in  his  chair,  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands.  When  he 
took  them  down,  his  face  had  the  aged,  ravaged  expression 
of  exhaustion  which  had  so  startled  her  on  her  arrival. 
Now  she  felt  none  of  her  frightened  revulsion,  but  only  an 

448 


"  The  Outer  Stars  "  449 

aching  pity  which  sent  her  out  to  him  in  a  rush,  her  arms 
outstretched,  crying  to  him  brokenly  that  he  still  had  his 
children  who  loved  him  more  than  anything  in  the  world. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life,  her  father  repelled  her, 
shrinking  away  from  her  with  a  brusque,  involuntary  recoil 
that  shocked  her,  thrusting  her  arms  roughly  to  one  side, 
and  rising  up  hastily  to  retreat  into  the  house.  He  said 
in  a  bitter,  recriminating  tone,  "  You  don't  know  what  you 
are  talking  about,'*  and  left  her  standing  there,  the  tears 
frozen  in  her  eyes.  He  went  heavily  upstairs  to  his  study 
on  the  top  floor  and  locked  the  door.  Sylvia  heard  the 
key  turn.  It  shut,  her  into  an  intolerable  solitude.  She 
had  not  thought  before  that  anything  could  seem  worse 
than  the  desolation  of  her  mother's  absence. 

She  felt  a  deathlike  sinking  of  her  heart.  She  was 
afraid  of  her  father,  who  no  longer  seemed  her  father, 
created  to  protect  and  cherish  her,  but  some  maniac  stranger. 
She  felt  an  impulse  like  that  of  a  terrified  child  to  run 
away,  far  away  to  some  one  who  should  stand  before  her 
and  bear  the  brunt.  She  started  up  from  her  chair  with 
panic  haste,  but  the  familiar  room,  saturated  with  recol- 
lections of  her  mother's  gallant  spirit,  stood  about  her  like 
a  wall,  shutting  her  in  to  the  battle  with  her  heart.  Who 
was  there  to  summon  whom  she  could  endure  as  a  spec- 
tator of  her  father's  condition?  Her  mother's  empty  chair 
stood  opposite  her,  against  the  wall.  She  looked  at  it 
fixedly;  and  drawing  a  long  breath  sat  down  quietly. 

This  act  of  courage  brought  a  reward  in  the  shape  of  a 
relaxation  of  the  clutch  on  her  throat  and  about  her  heart. 
Her  mother's  wise  materialism  came  to  her  mind  now  and 
she  made  a  heartsick  resolve  that  she  would  lead  as  phys- 
ically normal  a  life  as  possible,  working  out  of  doors,  forc- 
ing herself  to  eat,  and  that,  above  all  things,  she  would 
henceforth  deny  herself  the  weakening  luxury  of  tears. 
And  yet  but  an  hour  later,  as  she  bent  over  her  mother's 
flower-beds  blazing  in  the  sun,  she  found  the  tears  again 
streaming  from  her  eyes. 

She  tried  to  wipe  them  away,  but  they  continued  to  rain 


4£o  The  Bent  Twig 

down  on  her  cheeks.  Her  tongue  knew  their  saltness.  She 
was  profoundly  alarmed  and  cowed  by  this  irresistible  weak- 
ness, and  stood  helplessly  at  bay  among  the  languid  roses. 
The  sensation  of  her  own  utter  weakness,  prostrate  before 
her  dire  need  for  strength,  was  as  bitter  as  the  taste  of 
her  tears. 

She  stood  there,  among  the  sun-warmed  flowers,  looking 
like  a  symbolic  figure  of  youth  triumphant  .  .  .  and  she 
felt  herself  to  be  in  a  black  and  windowless  prison,  where 
the  very  earth  under  her  feet  was  treacherous,  where  every- 
thing betrayed  her. 

Then,  out  of  her  need,  her  very  great  need,  out  of  the 
wide  and  empty  spaces  of  her  inculcated  unbelief,  some- 
thing rose  up  and  overwhelmed  her.  The  force  stronger 
than  herself  which  she  had  longed  to  feel,  blew  upon  her 
like  a  wind  out  of  eternity. 

She  found  herself  on  her  knees,  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands,  sending  out  a  passionate  cry  which  transcended 
words.  The  child  of  the  twentieth  century,  who  had  been 
taught  not  to  pray,  was  praying. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  knelt  there  before  the 
world  emerged  from  the  white  glory  which  had  whirled 
down  upon  it,  and  hidden  it  from  her.  But  when  she  came 
to  herself,  her  eyes  were  dry,  and  the  weakening  impulse 
to  tears  had  gone.  She  stretched  out  her  hands  before  her, 
and  they  did  not  tremble.  The  force  stronger  than  herself 
was  now  in  her  own  heart.  From  her  mother's  garden 
there  rose  a  strong,  fragrant  exhalation,  as  sweet  as 
honey. 

For  more  than  an  hour  Sylvia  worked  steadily  among  the 
flowers,  consciously  wrought  upon  by  the  healing  emana- 
tions from  the  crushed,  spicy  leaves,  the  warm  earth,  and 
the  hot,  pure  breath  of  the  summer  wind  on  her  face. 

Once  she  had  a  passing  fancy  that  her  mother  stood  near 
her  .  .  .  smiling. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
"Call  now;  is  there  any  that  will  answer  thee?" — Job. 

When  she  went  back  to  the  silent,  echoing  house,  she 
felt  calmer  than  at  any  time  since  she  had  read  the  telegram 
in  Naples.  She  did  not  stop  to  wash  her  earth-stained 
hands,  but  went  directly  up  the  stairs  to  the  locked  door 
at  the  top.  She  did  not  knock  this  time.  She  stood  out- 
side and  said  authoritatively  in  a  clear,  strong  voice,  the 
sound  of  which  surprised  her,  "  Father  dear,  please  open 
the  door  and  let  me  in." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  shuffle  of  feet.  The  door 
opened  and  Professor  Marshall  appeared,  his  face  very 
white  under  the  thick  stubble  of  his  gray,  unshaven  beard, 
his  shoulders  bowed,  his  head  hanging.  Sylvia  went  to  his 
side,  took  his  hand  firmly  in  hers,  and  said  quietly :  "  Father, 
you  must  eat  something.  You  haven't  taken  a  bit  of  food 
in  two  days.  And  then  you  must  lie  down  and  rest."  She 
poured  all  of  her  new  strength  into  these  quietly  issued 
commands,  and  permitted  herself  no  moment's  doubt  of  his 
obedience  to  them.  He  lifted  his  head,  looked  at  her,  and 
allowed  her  to  lead  him  down  the  stairs  and  again  into  the 
dining-room.  Here  he  sat,  quite  spent,  staring  before  him 
until  Sylvia  returned  from  the  kitchen  with  a  plate  of  cold 
meat  and  some  bread.  She  sat  down  beside  him,  putting 
out  again  consciously  all  her  strength,  and  set  the  knife  and 
fork  in  his  nerveless  hands.  In  the  gentle  monologue 
with  which  she  accompanied  his  meal  she  did  not  mention 
her  mother,  or  anything  but  slight,  casual  matters  about 
the  house  and  garden.  She  found  herself  speaking  in  a 
hushed  tone,  as  though  not  to  awake  a  sleeping  person. 
Although  she  sat  quite  quietly,  her  hands  loosely  folded  on 
the  table,  her  heart  was  thrilling  and  burning  to  a  high 
resolve.    "  Now  it  is  my  turn  to  help  my  father." 

451        .-  , 


452  The  Bent  Twig 

After  he  had  eaten  a  few  mouthfuls  and  laid  down  the 
knife  and  fork,  she  did  not  insist  further,  but  rose  to  lead 
him  to  the  couch  in  the  living-room.  She  dared  not  risk 
his  own  room,  the  bed  on  which  her  mother  had  died. 

"  Now  you  must  lie  down  and  rest,  Father,"  she  said, 
loosening  his  clothes  and  unlacing  his  shoes  as  though  he 
had  been  a  sick  child.  He  let  her  do  what  she  would,  and 
as  she  pushed  him  gently  back,  he  yielded  and  lay  down 
at  full  length.  Sylvia  sat  down  beside  him,  feeling  her 
strength  ebbing.  Her  father  lay  on  his  back,  his  eyes  wide 
.Open.  On  the  ceiling  above  him  a  circular  flicker  of  light 
danced  and  shimmered,  reflected  from  a  glass  of  water  on 
the  table.  His  eyes  fastened  upon  this,  at  first  unwinkingly, 
with  a  fixed  intensity,  and  later  with  dropped  lids  and  half- 
upturned  eyeballs.  He  was  quite  quiet,  and  finally  seemed 
asleep,  although  the  line  of  white  between  his  eyelids  made 
Sylvia  shudder. 

With  the  disappearance  of  the  instant  need  for  self- 
control  and  firmness,  she  felt  an  immense  fatigue.  It  had 
cost  her  dearly,  this  victory,  slight  as  it  was.  She  drooped 
in  her  chair,  exhausted  and  undone.  She  looked  down  at 
the  ash-gray,  haggard  face  on  the  pillow,  trying  to  find  in 
those  ravaged  features  her  splendidly  life-loving  father. 
It  was  so  quiet  that  she  could  hear  the  big  clock  in  the 
dining-room  ticking  loudly,  and  half-consciously  she  began 
to  count  the  swings  of  the  pendulum :  One — two — three — 
four — five — six — seven — eight — nine — ten — eleven — twelve — 
thirteen — fourteen 

She  awoke  to  darkness  and  the  sound  of  her  mother's 
name  loudly  screamed.  She  started  up,  not  remembering 
where  she  was,  astonished  to  find  herself  sitting  in  a  chair. 
As  she  stood  bewildered  in  the  dark,  the  clock  in  the  dining- 
room  struck  two.  At  once  from  a  little  distance,  outside 
the  window  apparently,  she  heard  the  same  wild  cry  ringing 
in  her  ears — "  Bar-ba-ra!"  All  the  blood  in  her  body  con- 
gealed and  the  hair  on  her  head  seemed  to  stir  itself,  in 
the  instant  before  she  recognized  her  father's  voice. 

The  great  impulse  of  devotion  which  had  entered  her 


"  Call  Now  "  453 

heart  in  the  garden  still  governed  her.  Now  she  was  not 
afraid.  She  did  not  think  of  running  away.  She  only  knew 
that  she  must  find  her  father  quickly  and  take  care  of  him. 
Outside  on  the  porch,  the  glimmering  light  from  the  stars 
showed  her  his  figure,  standing  by  one  of  the  pillars,  lean- 
ing forward,  one  hand  to  his  ear.  As  she  came  out  of 
the  door,  he  dropped  his  hand,  threw  back  his  head,  and 
again  sent  out  an  agonizing  cry — "  Bar-ba-ra!  Where  are 
you  ?  "  It  was  not  the  broken  wail  of  despair ;  it  was  the 
strong,  searching  cry  of  a  lost  child  who  thinks  trustingly 
that  if  he  but  screams  loudly  enough  his  mother  must  hear 
him  and  come — and  yet  who  is  horribly  frightened  be- 
cause she  does  not  answer.  But  this  was  a  man  in  his  full 
strength  who  called!  It  seemed  the  sound  must  reach 
beyond  the  stars.  Sylvia  felt  her  very  bones  ringing  with 
it.  She  went  along  the  porch  to  her  father,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  his  arm.  Through  his  sleeve  she  could  feel  how 
tense  and  knotted  were  the  muscles.  "  Oh,  Father,  don't!" 
she  said  in  a  low  tone.  He  shook  her  off  roughly,  but  did 
not  turn  his  head  or  look  at  her.  Sylvia  hesitated,  not 
daring  to  leave  him  and  not  daring  to  try  to  draw  him  away ; 
and  again  was  shaken  by  that  terrible  cry. 

The  intensity  of  his  listening  attitude  seemed  to  hush 
into  breathlessness  the  very  night  about  him,  as  it  did 
Sylvia.  There  was  not  a  sound  from  the  trees.  They  stood 
motionless,  as  though  carved  in  wood ;  not  a  bird  fluttered 
a  wing ;  not  a  night-insect  shrilled ;  the  brook,  dried  by  the 
summer  heat  to  a  thread,  crept  by  noiselessly.  As  once  more 
the  frantic  cry  resounded,  it  seemed  to  pierce  this  opaque  si- 
lence like  a  palpable  missile,  and  to  wing  its  way  without 
hindrance  up  to  the  stars.  Not  the  faintest  murmur  came 
in  answer.  The  silence  shut  down  again,  stifling.  Sylvia 
and  her  father  stood  as  though  in  the  vacuum  of  a  great 
bell-glass  which  shut  them  away  from  the  rustling,  breath- 
ing, living  world.  Sylvia  said  again,  imploringly,  "  Oh, 
Father! "  He  looked  at  her  angrily,  sprang  from  the 
porch,  and  walked  rapidly  towards  the  road,  stumbling 
and  tripping  over  the  laces  of  his  shoes,  which  Sylvia  had 


454  The  Bent  Twig 

loosened  when  she  had  persuaded  him  to  lie  down.  Sylvia 
ran  after  him,  her  long  bounds  bringing  her  up  to  his  side 
in  a  moment.  The  motion  sent  the  blood  racing  through 
her  stiffened  limbs  again.  She  drew  a  long  breath  of  libera- 
tion. As  she  stepped  along  beside  her  father,  peering  in  the 
starlight  at  his  dreadful  face,  half  expecting  him  to  turn 
and  strike  her  at  any  moment,  she  felt  an  immense  relief. 
The  noise  of  their  feet  on  the  path  was  like  a  sane  voice 
of  reality.  Anything  was  more  endurable  than  to  stand 
silent  and  motionless  and  hear  that  screaming  call  lose 
itself  in  the  grimly  unanswering  distance. 

They  were  on  the  main  road  now,  walking  so  swiftly  that, 
in  the  hot  summer  night,  Sylvia  felt  her  forehead  beaded 
and  her  light  dress  cling  to  her  moist  body.  She  took  her 
father's  hand.  It  was  parched  like  a  sick  man's,  the  skin 
like  a  dry  husk.  After  this,  they  walked  hand-in-hand. 
Professor  Marshall  continued  to  walk  rapidly,  scuffling  in 
his  loose,  unlaced  shoes.  They  passed  barns  and  farm- 
houses, the  latter  sleeping,  black  in  the  starlight,  with 
darkened  windows.  In  one,  a  poor  little  shack  of  two 
rooms,  there  was  a  lighted  pane,  and  as  they  passed,  Sylvia 
heard  the  sick  wail  of  a  little  child.  The  sound  pierced  her 
heart.  She  longed  to  go  in  and  put  her  arms  about  the 
mother.  Now  she  understood.  She  tightened  her  hold  on 
her  father's  hand  and  lifted  it  to  her  lips. 

He  suffered  this  with  no  appearance  of  his  former  anger, 
and  soon  after  Sylvia  was  aware  that  his  gait  was  slacken- 
ing. She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  and  saw  that  he  had 
swung  from  unnatural  tension  to  spent  exhaustion.  His 
head  was  hanging  and  as  he  walked  he  wavered.  She 
put  her  hand  under  his  elbow  and  turned  him  about  on 
the  road.  "  Now  we  will  go  home,"  she  said,  drawing  his 
arm  through  hers.  He  made  no  resistance,  not  seeming 
to  know  what  she  had  done,  and  shuffled  along  wearily, 
leaning  all  his  weight  on  her  arm.  She  braced  her- 
self against  this  drag,  and  led  him  slowly  back,  wiping 
her  face  from  time  to  time  with  her  sleeve.  There  were 
moments  when  she  thought  she  must  let  him  sink  on  the 


"  Call  Now  "  455 

road,  but  she  fought  through  these,  and  as  the  sky  was 
turning  faintly  gray  over  their  heads,  and  the  implacably 
silent  stars  were  disappearing  in  this  pale  light,  the  two 
stumbled  up  the  walk  to  the  porch. 

Professor  Marshall  let  himself  be  lowered  into  the 
steamer  chair.  Sylvia  stood  by  him  until  she  was  sure  he 
would  not  stir,  and  then  hurried  into  the  kitchen.  In  a  few 
moments  she  brought  him  a  cup  of  hot  coffee  and  a  piece  of 
bread.  He  drank  the  one  and  ate  the  other  without  protest 
She  set  the  tray  down  and  put  a  pillow  under  her  father's 
head,  raising  the  foot-rest.  He  did  not  resist  her.  His 
head  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  but  his  eyes  did  not  close. 
They  were  fixed  on  a  distant  point  in  the  sky. 

Sylvia  tiptoed  away  into  the  house  and  sank  down  shiv- 
ering into  a  chair.  A  great  fit  of  trembling  and  nausea  came 
over  her.  She  rose,  walked  into  the  kitchen,  her  footsteps 
sounding  in  her  ears  like  her  mother's.  There  was  some 
coffee  left,  which  she  drank  resolutely,  and  she  cooked  an 
egg  and  forced  it  down,  her  mother's  precepts  loud  in  her 
ears.  Whatever  else  happened,  she  must  have  her  body  in 
condition  to  be  of  use. 

After  this  she  went  out  to  the  porch  again  and  lay  down 
in  the  hammock  near  her  father.  The  dawn  had  brightened 
into  gold,  and  the  sun  was  showing  on  the  distant,  level, 
green  horizon-line. 

It  was  almost  the  first  moment  of  physical  relaxation  she 
had  known,  and  to  her  immense,  her  awed  astonishment  it 
was  instantly  filled  with  a  pure,  clear  brilliance,  the  knowl- 
edge that  Austin  Page  lived  and  loved  her.  It  was  the  first, 
it  was  the  only  time  she  thought  of  anything  but  her  father, 
and  this  was  not  a  thought,  it  was  a  vision.  In  the  chaos 
about  her,  a  great  sunlit  rock  had  emerged.  She  laid  hold 
on  it  and  knew  that  she  would  not  sink. 

But  now,  now  she  must  think  of  nothing  but  her  father! 
There  was  no  one  else  who  could  help  her  father.  Could 
she?    Could  any  one? 


456  The  Bent  Twig 

She  herself,  since  her  prayer  among  the  roses,  cherished 
in  her  darkened  heart  a  hope  of  dawn.  But  how  could  she 
tell  her  father  of  that?  Even  if  she  had  been  able  to  force 
him  to  listen  to  her,  she  had  nothing  that  words  could  say, 
nothing  but  the  recollection  of  that  burning  hour  in  the 
garden  to  set  against  the  teachings  of  a  lifetime.  That  had 
changed  life  for  her  .  .  .  but  what  could  it  mean  to  her 
father  ?  How  could  she  tell  him  of  what  was  only  a  word- 
less radiance  ?  Her  father  had  taught  her  that  death  meant 
the  return  of  the  spirit  to  the  great,  impersonal  river  of 
life.  If  the  spirit  had  been  superb  and  splendid,  like  her 
mother's,  the  river  of  life  was  the  brighter  for  it,  but  that 
was  all.  Her  mother  had  lived,  and  now  lived  no  more. 
That  was  what  they  had  tried  to  teach  her  to  believe.  That 
was  what  her  father  had  taught  her — without,  it  now  ap- 
peared, believing  it  himself. 

And  yet  she  divined  that  it  was  not  that  he  would  not, 
but  that  he  could  not  now  believe  it.  He  was  like  a  man 
set  in  a  vacuum  fighting  for  the  air  without  which  life  is 
impossible.  And  she  knew  no  way  to  break  the  imprison- 
ing wall  and  let  in  air  for  him.  Was  there,  indeed,  any 
air  outside?  There  must  be,  or  the  race  could  not  live 
from  one  generation  to  the  next.  Every  one  whose  love  had 
encountered  death  must  have  found  an  air  to  breathe  or 
have  died. 

Constantly  through  all  these  thoughts,  that  day  and  for 
many  days  and  months  to  come,  there  rang  the  sound  of  her 
mother's  name,  screamed  aloud.  She  heard  it  as  though 
she  were  again  standing  by  her  father  under  the  stars.  And 
there  had  been  no  answer. 

She  felt  the  tears  stinging  at  her  eyelids  and  sat  up, 
terrified  at  the  idea  that  her  weakness  was  about  to  over- 
take her.  She  would  go  again  out  to  the  garden  where  she 
had  found  strength  before.  The  morning  sun  was  now  hot 
and  glaring  in  the  eastern  sky. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

"A  bruised  reed  will  He  not  break,  and  a  dimly  burning 
wick  will  He  not  quench."  — Isaiah. 

As  she  stepped  down  the  path,  she  saw  a  battered  black 
straw  hat  on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge.  Cousin  Parnelia's 
worn  old  face  and  dim  eyes  looked  at  her  through  the  gate. 
Under  her  arm  she  held  planchette.  Sylvia  stepped  through 
the  gate  and  drew  it  inhospitably  shut  back  of  her.  "  What 
is  it,  Cousin  Parnelia  ?  "  she  said  challengingly,  determined 
to  protect  her  father. 

The  older  woman's  face  was  all  aglow.  "  Oh,  my  dear ; 
I've  had  such  a  wonderful  message  from  your  dear  mother. 
Last  night " 

Sylvia  recoiled  from  the  mad  old  creature.  She  could 
not  bear  to  have  her  sane,  calm,  strong  mother's  name  on 
those  lips.  Cousin  Parnelia  went  on,  full  of  confidence :  "  I 
was  sound  asleep  last  night  when  I  was  awakened  by  the 
clock's  striking  two.  It  sounded  so  loud  that  I  thought 
somebody  had  called  to  me.  I  sat  up  in  bed  and  said, 
1  What  is  it  ? '  and  then  I  felt  a  great  longing  to  have 
planchette  write.  I  got  out  of  bed  in  my  nightgown  and 
sat  down  in  the  dark  at  the  table.  Planchette  wrote  so  fast 
,  that  I  could  hardly  keep  up  with  it.  And  when  it  stopped, 
'  I  lighted  a  match  and  see  .  .  .  here  ...  in  your  mother's 
very  handwriting" — fervently  she  held  the  bit  of  paper  up 
for  Sylvia  to  see.  The  girl  cast  a  hostile  look  at  the  paper 
and  saw  that  the  writing  on  it  was  the  usual  scrawl  pro- 
duced by  Cousin  Parnelia,  hardly  legible,  and  resembling 
anything  rather  than  her  mother's  handwriting. 

"  Read  it — read  it — it  is  too  beautiful !  "  quivered  the 
other,  "  and  then  let  me  show  it  to  your  father.     It  was 

meant  for  him " 

457 


458  The  Bent  Twig 

Sylvia  shook  like  a  roughly  plucked  fiddle-string.  She 
seized  the  wrinkled  old  hand  fiercely.  "  Cousin  Parnelia, 
I  forbid  you  going  anywhere  near  my  father!  You  know 
as  well  as  I  do  how  intensely  he  has  always  detested  spirit- 
ualism.   To  see  you  might  be  the  thing  that  would " 

The  old  woman  broke  in,  protesting,  her  hat  falling  to 
one  side,  her  brown  false  front  sliding  with  it  and  showing 
the  thin,  gray  hairs  beneath.  "  But,  Sylvia,  this  is  the  veryi 
thing  that  would  save  him — such  a  beautiful,  beautiful 
message  from  your  mother, — see!  In  her  own  hand- 
writing ! " 

Sylvia  snatched  the  sheet  of  yellow  paper.  "  That's  not 
my  mother's  handwriting!  Do  you  think  I  am  as  crazy 
as  you  are !  "  She  tore  the  paper  into  shreds  and  scattered 
them  from  her,  feeling  a  relief  in  the  violence  of  her  action. 
The  next  moment  she  remembered  how  patient  her  mother 
had  always  been  with  her  daft  kinswoman  and  seeing  tears 
in  the  blurred  old  eyes,  went  to  put  placating  arms  about 
the  other's  neck.  "  Never  mind,  Cousin  Parnelia,"  she  said 
with  a  vague  kindness,  "  I  know  you  mean  to  do  what's 
right — only  we  don't  believe  as  you  do,  and  Father  must 
not  be  excited !  "  She  turned  sick  as  she  spoke  and  shrank 
away  from  the  hedge,  carrying  her  small  old  cousin  with 
her.  Above  the  hedge  appeared  her  father's  gray  face 
and  burning  eyes. 

He  was  not  looking  at  her,  but  at  Cousin  Parnelia,  who 
now  sprang  forward,  crying  that  she  had  had  a  beautiful, 
beautiful  message  from  Cousin  Barbara.  "  It  came  last 
night  at  two  o'clock  .  .  .  just  after  the  clock  struck 
two " 

Professor  Marshall  looked  quickly  at  his  daughter,  and 
she  saw  that  he  too  had  heard  the  clock  striking  in  the 
dreadful  night,  and  that  he  noted  the  coincidence. 

"  Just  after  the  clock  struck  two  she  wrote  the  loveliest 
message  for  you  with  planchette.  Sylvia  tore  it  up. 
But  I'm  sure  that  if  we  try  with  faith,  she  will  repeat 
it  .  .  ." 

Professor  Marshall's  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  wife's  old 


"A  Bruised  Reed"  459 

cousin.  "  Come  in,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice.  They  were 
almost  the  first  words  Sylvia  had  heard  him  say. 

Cousin  Parnelia  hastened  up  the  path  to  the  house.  Syl- 
via followed  with  her  father,  at  the  last  extremity  of  agij 
tation  and  perplexity. 

When  Cousin  Parnelia  reached  the  dining-room  table, 
she  sat  down  by  it,  pushed  the  cloth  to  one  side,  and  pro- 
duced a  fresh  sheet  of  yellow  paper  from  her  shabby  bag. 
"  Put  yourselves  in  a  receptive  frame  of  mind,"  she  said  in 
a  glib,  professional  manner.  Sylvia  stiffened  and  tried  to 
draw  her  father  away,  but  he  continued  to  stand  by  the 
table,  staring  at  the  blank  sheet  of  paper  with  a  strange, 
wild  expression  on  his  white  face.  He  did  not  take  his  eyes 
from  the  paper.  In  a  moment,  he  sat  down  suddenly,  as 
though  his  knees  had  failed  him. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  in  which  Sylvia  could  hear  the 
roaring  of  the  blood  in  her  arteries.  Cousin  Parnelia  put 
one  deeply  veined,  shrunken  old  hand  on  planchette  and 
the  other  over  her  eyes  and  waited,  her  wrinkled,  common- 
place old  face  assuming  a  solemn  expression  of  importance. 
The  clock  ticked  loudly. 

Planchette  began  to  write — at  first  in  meaningless  flour- 
ishes, then  with  occasional  words,  and  finally  Sylvia  saw 
streaming  away  from  the  pencil  the  usual  loose,  scrawling 
handwriting.  Several  lines  were  written  and  then  the  pencil 
stopped  abruptly.  Sylvia  standing  near  her  father  heard 
his  breathing  grow  loud  and  saw  in  a  panic  that  the  veins 
on  his  temples  were  swollen. 

Cousin  Parnelia  took  her  hand  off  planchette,  put  on 
her  spectacles,  read  over  what  had  been  written,  and  gave 
it  to  Professor  Marshall.  Sylvia  was  in  such  a  state  of 
bewilderment  that  nothing  her  father  could  have  done  would 
have  surprised  her.  She  half  expected  to  see  him  dash 
the  paper  in  the  old  woman's  face,  half  thought  that  any 
moment  he  would  fall,  choking  with  apoplexy. 

What  he  did  was  to  take  the  paper  and  try  to  hold  it 
steadily  enough  to  read.     But  his  hand  shook  terribly. 

"  I  will  read  it  to  you,"  said  Cousin  Parnelia,  and  she 


460  The  Bent  Twig 

read  aloud  in  her  monotonous,  illiterate  voice :  "  '  I  am  well 
and  happy,  dearest  Elliott,  and  never  far  from  you.  When 
you  call  to  me,  I  hear  you.  All  is  not  yet  clear,  but  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you  more  of  the  whole  meaning.     I  am 

near  you  this  moment.     I  wish  that '     The  message 

stopped  there,"  explained  Cousin  Parnelia,  laying  down 
the  paper. 

Professor  Marshall  leaned  over  it,  straining  his  eyes  to 
the  rude  scrawls,  passing  his  hand  over  his  forehead  as 
though  to  brush  away  a  web.  He  broke  out  in  a  loud,  high 
voice.  "  That  is  her  handwriting.  .  .  .  Good  God,  her  very 
handwriting — the  way  she  writes  Elliott — it  is  from  her!" 
He  snatched  the  paper  up  and  took  it  to  the  window, 
stumbling  over  the  chairs  blindly  as  he  went.  As  he  held  it 
up  to  the  light,  poring  over  it  again,  he  began  to  weep, 
crying  out  his  wife's  name  softly,  the  tears  streaming  down 
his  unshaven  cheeks.  He  came  back  to  the  table,  and  sank 
down  before  it,  still  sobbing,  still  murmuring  incessantly, 
"  Oh,  Barbara — Barbara !  "  and  laid  his  head  on  his  out- 
stretched arms. 

"  Let  him  cry !  "  whispered  Cousin  Parnelia  sentimentally 
to  Sylvia,  drawing  her  away  into  the  hall.  A  few  moments 
later  when  they  looked  in,  he  had  fallen  asleep,  his  head 
turned  to  one  side  so  that  Sylvia  saw  his  face,  tear-stained 
and  exhausted,  but  utterly  relaxed  and  at  peace,  like  that 
of  a  little  child  in  sleep.  Crushed  in  one  hand  was  the 
yellow  sheet  of  paper  covered  with  coarse,  wavering  marks. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

*  That  our  soul  may  swim 
We  sink  our  heart  down,  bubbling,  under  wave!' 

The  two  sisters,  their  pale  faces  grave  in  the  shadow  of 
their  wide  hats,  were  on  their  knees  with  trowels  in  a 
border  of  their  mother's  garden.  Judith  had  been  giving 
a  report  of  Lawrence's  condition,  and  Sylvia  was  just  finish- 
ing an  account  of  what  had  happened  at  home,  when  the 
gate  in  the  osage-orange  hedge  clicked,  and  a  blue-uni- 
formed boy  came  whistling  up  the  path.  He  made  an 
inquiry  as  to  names,  and  handed  Sylvia  an  envelope.  She 
opened  it,  read  silently,  "  Am  starting  for  America  and 
you  at  once.  Felix."  She  stood  looking  at  the  paper  for 
a  moment,  her  face  quite  unmoved  from  its  quiet  sadness. 
The  boy  asked,  "Any  answer?" 

"  No,"  she  said  decisively,  shaking  her  head.  "  No 
answer." 

As  he  lingered,  lighting  a  cigarette,  she  put  a  question  in 
her  turn,  "  Anything  to  pay  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  putting  the  cigarette-box  back  in 
his  pocket,  "  Nothing  to  pay."  He  produced  a  worn  and 
greasy  book,  "  Sign  on  this  line,"  he  said,  and  after  she  had 
signed,  he  went  away  down  the  path,  whistling.  The 
transaction  was  complete. 

Sylvia  looked  after  the  retreating  figure  and  then  turned 
to  Judith  as  though  there  had  been  no  interruption. 
"...  and  you  can  see  for  yourself  how  little  use  I  am  to 
him  now.  Since  he  got  Cousin  Parnelia  in  the  house,  there's 
nothing  anybody  else  could  do  for  him.  Even  you  couldn't, 
if  you  could  leave  Lawrence.  Not  for  a  while,  anyhow.  I 
suppose  he'll  come  slowly  out  of  this  to  be  himself  again 
.  but  I'm  not  sure  that  he  will.    And  for  now,  I  actually 

46  7 


462  The  Bent  Twig 

believe  that  he'd  be  easier  in  his  mind  if  we  were  both 
away.  I  never  breathe  a  word  of  criticism  about  planchette, 
of  course.  But  he  knows.  There's  that  much  left  of  his 
old  self.  He  knows  how  I  must  feel.  He's  really  ever  so 
much  better  too.  you  know.  He's  taken  up  his  classes  in 
the  Summer  School  again.  He  said  he  had  '  a  message ' 
from  Mother  that  he  was  to  go  back  to  his  work  bravely ; 
and  the  very  next  day  he  went  over  to  the  campus,  and 
taught  all  his  classes  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  Isn't 
it  awfully,  terribly  touching  to  see  how  even  such  a  poor, 
incoherent  make-believe  of  a  '  message '  from  Mother  has 
more  power  to  calm  him  than  anything  we  could  do  with 
our  whole  hearts?  But  how  can  he!  I  can't  understand 
it !  I  can't  bear  it,  to  come  in  on  him  and  Cousin  Parnelia, 
in  their  evenings,  and  see  them  bent  over  that  grotesque 
planchette  and  have  him  look  up  at  me  so  defiantly,  as 
though  he  were  just  setting  his  teeth  and  saying  he  wouldn't 
care  what  I  thought  of  him.  He  doesn't  really  care  either. 
He  doesn't  think  of  anything  but  of  having  evening  come 
when  he  can  get  another  '  message  '  from  Mother  .  .  .  from 
Mother !    Mother !  " 

"Well,  perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  for  us  not 
to  be  here  for  a  while,"  murmured  Judith.  There 
were  deep  dark  rings  under  her  eyes,  as  though  she  had 
slept  badly  for  a  long  time.  "  Perhaps  it  may  be  better 
later  on.  I  can  take  Lawrence  back  with  me  when  I  go 
to  the  hospital.  I  want  to  keep  him  near  me  of  course, 
dear  little  Lawrence.  My  little  boy !  He'll  be  my  life  now. 
He'll  be  what  I  have  to  live  for." 

Something  in  the  quality  of  her  quiet  voice  sent  a  chill  to 
Sylvia's  heart.  "  Why,  Judy  dear,  after  you  are  married 
of  course  you  and  Arnold  can  keep  Lawrence  with  you. 
That'll  be  the  best  for  him,  a  real  home,  with  you.  Oh, 
Judy  dear,"  she  laid  down  her  trowel,  fighting  hard  against 
a  curious  sickness  which  rose  within  her.  She  tried  to 
speak  lightly.  Oh,  Judy  dear,  when  are  you  going  to  be 
married?  Or  don't  you  want  to  speak  about  it  now,  for  a 
while?     You  never  write  long  letters,  I  know — but  your 


"  That  Our  Soul  May  Swim  "  463 

late  ones  haven't  had  any  news  in  them!  You  positively 
haven't  so  much  as  mentioned  Arnold's  name  lately." 

As  she  spoke,  she  knew  that  she  was  voicing  an  uneasi- 
ness which  had  been  an  unacknowledged  occupant  of  her 
mind  for  a  long  time.  But  she  looked  confidently  to  see 
one  of  Judith's  concise,  comprehensive  statements  make  her 
dim  apprehensions  seem  fantastic  and  far-fetched,  as  Judith 
always  made  any  flight  of  the  imagination  appear.  But 
nothing  which  Sylvia's  imagination  might  have  been  able 
to  conceive  would  have  struck  her  such  a  blow  as  the  fact 
which  Judith  now  produced,  in  a  dry,  curt  phrase :  "  I'm  not 
going  to  be  married." 

Sylvia  did  not  believe  her  ears.  She  looked  up  wildly 
as  Judith  rose  from  the  ground,  and  advanced  upon  her 
sister  with  a  stern,  white  face.  Before  she  had  finished 
speaking,  she  had  said  more  than  Sylvia  had  ever  heard  her 
say  about  a  matter  personal  to  her;  but  even  so,  her  iron 
words  were  few.  "  Sylvia,  I  want  to  tell  you  about  it,  of 
course.  I've  got  to.  But  I  won't  say  a  word,  unless  you  can 
keep  quiet,  and  not  make  a  fuss.  I  couldn't  stand  that. 
I've  got  all  I  can  stand  as  it  is." 

She  stood  by  an  apple-tree  and  now  broke  from  it  a 
small,  leafy  branch,  which  she  held  as  she  spoke.  There 
was  something  shocking  in  the  contrast  between  the  steady 
rigor  of  her  voice  and  the  fury  of  her  fingers  as  they  tore 
and  stripped  and  shredded  the  leaves.  "  Arnold  is  an  in- 
curable alcoholic,"  she  said ;  "  Dr.  Rivedal  has  pronounced 
him  hopeless.  Dr.  Charton  and  Dr.  Pansard  (they're  the 
best  specialists  in  that  line)  have  had  him  under  observa- 
tion and  they  say  the  same  thing.  He's  had  three  dreadful 
attacks  lately.  We  .  .  .  none  of  their  treatment  does  any 
good.  It's  been  going  on  too  long — from  the  time  he  was 
first  sent  away  to  school,  at  fourteen,  alone!  There  was 
an  inherited  tendency,  anyhow.  Nobody  took  it  seriously, 
that  and — and  the  other  things  boys  with  too  much  money 
do.  Apparently  everybody  thought  it  was  just  the  way  boys 
are — if  anybody  thought  anything  about  it,  except  that  it 
was  a  bother.    He  never  had  anybody,  you  know — never, 


464  The  Bent  Twig 

never  anybody  who  .  .  ."  her  voice  rose,  threatened  to 
break.  She  stopped,  swallowed  hard,  and  began  again : 
"The  trouble  is  he  has  no  constitution  left — nothing  for  a 
doctor  to  work  with.  It's  not  Arnold's  fault.  If  he  had 
come  out  to  us,  that  time  in  Chicago  when  he  wanted  to — 

we — he   could — with    Mother   to "     Her   steady  voice 

gave  way  abruptly.  She  cast  the  ravaged,  leafless  branch 
violently  to  the  ground  and  stood  looking  down  at  it. 
There  was  not  a  fleck  of  color  in  her  beautiful,  stony  face. 

Sylvia  concentrated  all  her  will-power  on  an  effort  to 
speak  as  Judith  would  have  her,  quietly,  without  heroics; 
but  when  she  broke  her  silence  she  found  that  she  had  no 
control  of  her  voice.  She  tried  to  say,  "  But,  Judith  dear, 
if  Arnold  is  like  that — doesn't  he  need  you  more  than  ever? 
You  are  a  nurse.  How  can  you  abandon  him  now !  "  But 
she  could  produce  only  a  few,  broken,  inarticulate  words 
in  a  choking  voice  before  she  was  obliged  to  stop  short,  lest 
she  burst  out  in  the  flood  of  horror  which  Judith  had 
forbidden. 

Broken  and  inarticulate  as  they  were,  Judith  knew  what 
was  the  meaning  of  those  words.  The  corners  of  her  mouth 
twitched  uncontrollably.  She  bit  her  marble  lower  lip 
repeatedly  before  she  could  bring  out  the  few  short  phrases 

which  fell  like  clods  on  a  coffin.    "  If  I — if  we Arnold 

and  I  are  in  love  with  each  other."  She  stopped,  drew  a 
painful  breath,  and  said  again :  "  Arnold  and  I  are  in  love 
with  each  other.  Do  you  know  what  that  means?  He  is 
the  only  man  I  could  not  take  care  of — Arnold!  If  I 
should  try,  we  would  soon  be  married,  or  lovers.     If  we 

were  married  or  lovers,  we  would  soon  have "     She 

had  overestimated  her  strength.  Even  she  was  not  strong 
enough  to  go  on. 

She  sat  down  on  the  ground,  put  her  long  arms  around 
her  knees,  and  buried  her  face  in  them.  She  was  not 
weeping.    She  sat  as  still  as  though  carved  in  stone. 

Sylvia  herself  was  beyond  tears.  She  sat  looking  down 
at  the  moist  earth  on  the  trowel  she  held,  drying  visibly  in 
the  hot  sun,  turning  to  dust,  and  falling  away  in  a  crum- 


"  That  Our  Soul  May  Swim  "  465 

bling,  impalpable  powder.  It  was  like  seeing  a  picture  of 
her  heart.  She  thought  of  Arnold  with  an  indignant,  pas- 
sionate  pity — how    could   Judith ?      But    she    was    so 

close  to  Judith's  suffering  that  she  felt  the  dreadful  rigidity 
of  her  body.  The  flat,  dead  tones  of  the  man  in  the 
Pantheon  were  in  her  ears.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Life  was 
an  adventure  perilous  and  awful  beyond  imagination. 
There  was  no  force  to  cope  with  it,  save  absolute  integrity. 
Everything  else  was  a  vain  and  foolish  delusion,  a  two- 
edged  sword  which  wounded  the  wielding  hand. 

She  did  not  move  closer  to  Judith,  she  did  not  put  out 
her  hand.  Judith  would  not  like  that.  She  sat  quite  mo- 
tionless, looking  into  black  abysses  of  pain,  of  responsi- 
bilities not  met,  feeling  press  upon  her  the  terrifying  close- 
ness of  all  human  beings  to  all  other  human  beings — there 
in  the  sun  of  June  a  cold  sweat  stood  on  her  fore- 
head. .  .  . 

But  then  she  drew  a  long  breath.  Why,  there  was 
Austin!  The  anguished  contraction  of  her  heart  relaxed. 
The  warm  blood  flowed  again  through  her  veins.  There 
was  Austin! 

She  was  rewarded  for  her  effort  to  bring  herself  to 
Judith's  ways,  when  presently  her  sister  moved  and 
reached  out  blindly  for  her  hand.  At  this  she  opened  her 
arms  and  took  Judith  in.  No  word  was  spoken.  Their 
mother  was  there  with  them. 

Sylvia  looked  out  over  the  proud,  dark  head,  now  heavy 
on  her  bosom,  and  felt  herself  years  older.  She  did  not 
try  to  speak.  She  had  nothing  to  say.  There  was  nothing 
she  could  do,  except  to  hold  Judith  and  love  her. 

There  was  nothing,  nothing  left  but  love. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 
A  LONG  TALK  WITH  ARNOLD 

The  tall,  lean  young  man,  sitting  his  galloping  horse  very 
slackly,  riding  fast  with  a  recklessly  loose  rein,  and  staring 
with  bloodshot  eyes  down  at  the  dust  of  the  road,  gave 
an  exclamation,  brought  the  mare  upon  her  haunches,  and 
sprang  down  from  the  saddle.  A  woman,  young,  tall, 
grave,  set  like  a  pearl  in  her  black  mourning  dress,  stood 
up  from  the  roadside  brook  and  advanced  to  meet  him. 
They  looked  at  each  other  as  people  do  who  meet  after 
death  has  passed  by.  They  stammered  vague  words,  their 
eyes  brimming. 

"  I — she  was  always  so  good  to  me,"  said  Arnold,  his 
voice  breaking  and  quavering  as  he  wrung  Sylvia's  hand 
again  and  again.  "  I  never  knew — saw  much  of  her,  I 
know — but  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  used — I  used  to  dream 
about  her  at  night."  His  thin,  sallow  face  flushed  with  his 
earnestness.  "  I  don't  believe — honestly,  Sylvia,  I  don't  be- 
lieve her  own  children  loved  her  any  more  than  I  did.  Fve 
thought  so  many  times  how  different  everything  would 
have  been  if  I'd — I  don't  suppose  you  remember,  but  years 
ago  when  you  and  she  were  in  Chicago,  I  ran  away  from 
school  to  go  out  there,  and  ask  if " 

Sylvia  remembered,  had  thought  of  nothing  else  from 
the  moment  she  had  seen  far  down  the  road  the  horseman 
vainly  fleeing  the  black  beast  on  his  crupper.  She  shook 
her  head  now,  her  hand  at  her  throat,  and  motioned  him 
to  silence.  "  Don't !  Don't !  "  she  said  urgently.  "  Yes,  I 
remember.     I  remember." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  filled  by  the  murmur  of 
the  little  brook  at  their  feet.  The  mare,  which  had  been 
drinking  deeply,  now  lifted  her  head,  the  water  running 

466 


A  Long  Talk  with  Arnold  467 

from  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  gave  a  deep  breath 
of  satisfaction,  and  began  cropping  the  dense  green  grass 
which  grew  between  the  water  and  the  road.  Her  master 
tossed  the  reins  over  the  pommel  and  let  her  go.  He  began 
speaking  again  on  a  different  note.  "  But,  Sylvia,  what  in 
the  world — here,  can't  we  go  up  under  those  trees  a  few 
minutes  and  have  a  talk  ?  I  can  keep  my  eye  on  the  mare/" 
As  they  took  the  few  steps  he  asked  again,  "  How  ever 
does  it  happen  that  you're  here  at  Lydford  Junction  of  all 
awful  holes  ?  " 

Sylvia  took  an  abrupt  resolution,  sat  down  on  the  pine- 
needles,  and  said,  very  directly,  "  I  am  on  my  way  to  Austin 
Farm  to  see  if  Austin  Page  still  wants  to  marry  me."  Her 
manner  had  the  austere  simplicity  of  one  who  has  been 
moving  in  great  and  grave  emotions. 

Arnold  spoke  with  an  involuntary  quickness :  "  But 
you've  heard,  haven't  you,  about  his  giving  up  all  his  Colo- 
rado .  .  ." 

Sylvia  flushed  a  deep  crimson  and  paid  with  a  moment 
of  bitter,  shamed  resentment  for  the  other  bygone  moments 
of  calculation.  "  Yes,  yes,  of  course."  She  spoke  with  a 
stern  impatience.    "  Did  you  suppose  it  was  for  his  fortune 

that "     She  paused  and  said  humbly,  "  Of  course,  it's 

natural  that  you  should  think  that  of  me." 

Arnold  attempted  no  self-exculpation.  He  sat  down  by 
her,  his  riding-crop  across  his  knees.  "  Could  you — do  you 
feel  like  telling  me  about  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  nodded.  It  came  to  her  like  an  inspiration  that  only 
if  she  opened  her  heart  utterly  to  Arnold,  could  he  open 
his  sore  heart  to  her.  "  There's  not  much  to  tell.  I  don't 
know  where  to  begin.  Perhaps  there's  too  much  to  tell, 
after  all.  I  didn't  know  what  any  of  it  meant  till  now. 
It's  the  strangest  thing,  Arnold,  how  little  people  know 
what  is  growing  strong  in  their  lives!  I  supposed  all  the 
time  I  only  liked  him  because  he  was  so  rich.  I  thought  it 
must  be  so.  I  thought  that  was  the  kind  of  girl  I  was. 
And  then,  besides,  I'd — perhaps  you  didn't  know  how  much 
I'd  liked  Felix  Morrison." 


468  The  Bent  Twig 

Arnold  nodded.  "  I  sort  of  guessed  so.  You  were 
awfully  game,  then,  Sylvia.  You're  game  now — it's  awfully 
white  to  fall  in  love  with  a  man  because  he's  rich  and  then 
stick  to  him  when  he's " 

Sylvia  waved  her  hand  impatiently.  "  Oh,  you  don't 
understand.  It's  not  because  I  think  I  ought  to — Heavens, 
no!  Let  me  try  to  tell  you.  Listen!  When  the  news 
came,  about  this  Colorado  business — I  was  about  crazy  for 
a  while.  I  just  went  to  pieces.  I  knew  I  ought  to  answer 
his  letter,  but  I  couldn't.  ,  I  see  now,  looking  back,  that  I 
had  just  crumpled  up  under  the  weight  of  my  weakness. 
I  didn't  know  it  then.  I  kept  saying  to  myself  that  I  was 
only  putting  off  deciding  till  I  could  think  more  about  it, 
but  I  know  now  that  I  had  decided  to  give  him  up,  never 
to  see  him  again — Felix  was  there,  you  know — I'd  decided 
to  give  Austin  up  because  he  wasn't  rich  any  more.  Did 
you  know  I  was  that  base  sort  of  a  woman?  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  will  ever  be  willing  to  take  me  back? — now  after 
this  long  time  ?    It's  a  month  since  I  got  his  letter." 

Arnold  bent  his  riding-crop  between  his  thin,  nervous 
hands.  "  Are  you  sure  now,  Sylvia,  are  you  sure  now, 
dead  sure  ?  "  he  asked.  "  It  would  be  pretty  hard  on  Aus- 
tin if  you — afterwards — he's  such  a  square,  straight  sort 
of  a  man,  you  ought  to  be  awfully  careful  not  to " 

Sylvia  said  quickly,  her  quiet  voice  vibrant,  her  face 
luminous :  "  Oh,  Arnold,  I  could  never  tell  you  how  sure 
I  am.  There  just  isn't  anything  else.  Over  there  in  Paris, 
I  tried  so  hard  to  think  about  it — and  I  couldn't  get  any- 
where at  all.  The  more  I  tried,  the  baser  I  grew ;  the  more 
I  loved  the  things  I'd  have  to  give  up,  the  more  I  hung 
on  to  them.     Thinking  didn't  do  a  bit  of  good,  though  I 

almost  killed  myself  thinking — thinking All  I'd  done 

was  to  think  out  an  ingenious,  low,  mean  compromise  to 
justify  myself  in  giving  him  up.  And  then,  after  Judith's 
cablegram  came,  I  started  home — Arnold,  what  a  journey 
that  was ! — and  I  found — I  found  Mother  was  gone,  just 
gone  away  forever — and  I  found  Father  out  of  his  head  with 
sorrow — and  Judith  told  me  about — about  her  trouble.    It 


A  Long  Talk  with  Arnold  469 

was  like  going  through  a  long  black  corridor.  It  seemed  as 
though  I'd  never  come  out  on  the  other  side.     But  when  I 

did A  door  that  I  couldn't  ever,  ever  break  down — 

somehow  it's  been  just  quietly  opened,  and  I've  gone  through 
it  into  the  only  place  where  it's  worth  living.  It's  the 
last  thing  Mother  did  for  me — what  nobody  but  Mother 
could  have  done.  I  don't  want  to  go  back.  I  couldn't  if 
I  wanted  to.  Those  things  don't  matter  to  me  now.  I  don't 
think  they're  wrong,  the  ease,  the  luxury,  if  you  can  have 
them  without  losing  something  finer.  And  I  suppose  some 
people's  lives  are  arranged  so  they  don't  lose  the  finer.  But 
mine  wouldn't  be.  I  see  that  now.  And  I  don't  care  at  all — 
it  all  seems  so  unimportant  to  me,  what  I  was  caring  about, 
before.  Nothing  matters  now  but  Austin.  He  is  the  only 
thing  that  has  lived  on  for  me.  I'm  down  on  my  knees  with 
thankfulness  that  he  just  exists,  even  if  he  can't  forgive 
me — even  if  he  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more — even  if  I 
shouldn't  ever  see  him  again — even  if  he  should  die — he 
would  be  like  Mother,  he  couldn't  die,  for  me.  He's  there. 
I  know  what  he  is.  Somehow  everything's  all  right — be- 
cause there's  Austin." 

She  broke  off,  smiling  palely  and  quietly  at  the  man 
beside  her.  He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers  for  an  instant  and 
then  dropped  them.  Sylvia  went  on.  "  I  don't  pretend  to 
know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  this  Colorado  business.  It 
may  be  that  it  was  quixotic  on  Austin's  part.  Maybe  it 
has  upset  business  conditions  out  there  a  lot.  It's  too  com- 
plicated to  be  sure  about  how  anything,  I  suppose,  is  likely 
to  affect  an  industrial  society.  But  I'm  sure  about  how 
it  has  affected  the  people  who  live  in  the  world — it's  a  great 
golden  deed  that  has  enriched  everybody — not  just  Austin's 
coal-miners,  but  everybody  who  had  heard  of  it.  The  sky 
is  higher  because  of  it.  Everybody  has  a  new  conception 
of  the  good  that's  possible.  And  then  for  me,  it  means  that 
a  man  who  sees  an  obligation  nobody  else  sees  and  meets 
it — why,  with  such  a  man  to  help,  anybody,  even  a  weak 
fumbling  person  like  me,  can  be  sure  of  at  least  loyally 
trying  to  meet  the  debts  life  brings.    It's  awfully  hard  to 


47°  The  Bent  Twig 

know  what  they  are,  and  to  meet  them — and  it's  too  hor^ 
rible  if  you  don't." 

She  stopped,  aware  that  the  life  of  the  man  beside  her 
was  one  of  the  unpaid  debts  so  luridly  present  to  her  mind. 

"  Sylvia,"  said  Arnold,  hesitating,  "  Sylvia,  all  this  sounds 
so — look  here,  are  you  sure  you're  in  love  with  Austin  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  steady  as  stars.  "  Aren't 
there  as  many  ways  of  being  in  love,  as  there  are  people?  " 
she  asked.  "  I  don't  know — I  don't  know  if  it's  what  every- 
body would  call  being  in  love — but "    She  met  his  eyes, 

and  unashamed,  regally,  opened  her  heart  to  him  with  a 
look.  "  I  can't  live  without  Austin,"  she  said  quickly,  in  a 
low  tone. 

He  looked  at  her  long,  and  turned  away.  "  Oh  yes, 
you're  in  love  with  him,  all  right ! "  he  murmured  finally, 
"  and  I  don't  believe  that  the  Colorado  business  or  any 
of  the  rest  of  what  you're  saying  has  much  to  do  with 
anything.  Austin's  a  live  man  and  you're  in  love  with  him ; 
and  that's  all  there  is  to  it.  You're  lucky !  "  He  took  out 
his  handkerchief,  and  wiped  his  forehead  and  the  back  of 
his  neck.  Sylvia,  looking  at  him  more  closely,  was  shocked 
to  see  how  thin  and  haggard  was  his  face.  He  asked  now, 
"  Did  you  ever  think  that  maybe  what  Austin  was  thinking 
about  when  he  chucked  the  money  was  what  you'd  say,  how 
you'd  take  it?  I  should  imagine,"  he  added  with  a  faint 
smile,  "  that  he  is  hard  to  please  if  he's  not  pretty  well 
satisfied." 

Sylvia  was  startled.  "  No.  Why  no,"  she  said,  "  I 
thought  I'd  looked  at  every  single  side  of  it,  but  I  never 
dreamed  of  that." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  he  did  it  for  that !  Lord,  no !  I 
suppose  it's  been  in  his  mind  for  years.  But  afterwards, 
don't  you  suppose  he  thought  .  .  .  he'd  been  run  after  for 
his  money  such  a  terrible  lot,  you  know  .  .  .  don't  you 
suppose  he  thought  he'd  be  sure  of  you  one  way  or  the 
other,  about  a  million  times  surer  than  he  could  have  been 
any  other  way;  if  you  stuck  by  him,  don't  you  see,  with 
old    Felix   there   with   all   his   fascinations,    plus    Molly's 


A  Long  Talk  with  Arnold  471 

money."  He  turned  on  her  with  a  sudden  confused  wonder 
in  his  face.  "God!  What  a  time  he  took  to  do  it!  I 
hadn't  realized  all  his  nerve  till  this  minute.  He  must  have 
known  what  it  meant,  to  leave  you  there  with  Felix  ...  to 

risk  losing  you  as  well  as Any  other  man  would  have 

tried  to  marry  you  first  and  then !  Well,  what  a  dead- 
game  sport  he  was!  And  all  for  a  lot  of  dirty  Polacks 
who'd  never  laid  eyes  on  him !  " 

He  took  his  riding-cap  from  his  head  and  tossed  it  on 
the  dried  pine-needles.  Sylvia  noticed  that  his  dry,  thin 
hair  was  already  receding  from  his  parchment-like  fore- 
head. There  were  innumerable  fine  lines  about  his  eyes. 
One  eyelid  twitched  spasmodically  at  intervals.  He  looked 
ten  years  older  than  his  age.  He  looked  like  a  man  who 
would  fall  like  a  rotten  tree  at  the  first  breath  of  sickness. 

He  now  faced  around  to  her  with  a  return  to  everyday 
matters.  "See  here,  Sylvia,  I've  just  got  it  through  my 
head.  Are  you  waiting  here  for  that  five-fifteen  train  to 
West  Lydford  and  then  are  you  planning  to  walk  out  to 
the  Austin  Farm  ?  Great  Scott !  don't  do  that,  in  this  heat. 
I'll  just  run  back  to  the  village  and  get  a  car  and  take 
you  there  in  half  an  hour."  He  rose  to  his  feet,  but  Sylvia 
sprang  up  quickly,  catching  at  his  arm  in  a  panic.  "  No !  no ! 
Arnold,  you  don't  understand.  I  haven't  written  Austin 
a  word — he  doesn't  know  I'm  coming.  At  first  in  Paris  I 
couldn't — I  was  so  despicable — and  then  afterwards  I 
couldn't  either, — though  it  was  all  right  then.  There  aren't 
any  words.  It's  all  too  big,  too  deep  to  talk  about.  I 
didn't  want  to,  either.  I  wanted  to  see  him — to  see  if  he 
still,  if  he  wants  me  now.  He  could  write  anything.  He'd 
feel  he'd  have  to.  How  would  I  ever  know  but  that  it  was 
only  because  he  thought  he  ought  to?  I  thought  I  would 
just  go  to  him  all  by  myself,  without  his  knowing  I  was 
coming.  /  can  tell — the  first  moment  he  looks  at  me  I  can 
tell — for  all  my  life,  I'll  be  sure,  one  way  or  the  other. 
That  first  look,  what's  in  him  will  show!  He  can't  hide 
anything  then,  not  even  to  be  kind.  I'll  know!  I'll 
know!" 


472  The  Bent  Twig 

Arnold  sat  down  again  with  no  comment.  Evidently  he 
understood.  He  leaned  his  head  back  against  the  rough 
bark  of  the  pine,  and  closed  his  eyes.  There  was  a  painful 
look  of  excessive  fatigue  about  his  whole  person.  He 
glanced  up  and  caught  Sylvia's  compassionate  gaze  on  him. 
"  I  haven't  been  sleeping  very  well  lately,"  he  said  very 
dryly.  "  It  breaks  a  fellow  up  to  lose  sleep."  Sylvia 
nodded.  Evidently  he  was  not  minded  to  speak  of  his  own 
troubles.     He  had  not  mentioned  Judith. 

She  looked  up  thoughtfully  at  the  well-remembered  high 
line  of  the  mountain  against  the  sky.  Her  mother's  girl- 
hood eyes  had  looked  at  that  high  line.  She  fell  into  a 
brooding  meditation,  and  presently,  obeying  one  of  her  sure 
instincts,  she  sat  down  by  Arnold,  and  began  to  talk  to  him 
about  what  she  divined  for  the  moment  would  most  touch 
and  move  him;  she  began  to  talk  about  her  mother.  He 
was  silent,  his  worn,  sallow  face  impassive,  but  she  knew 
he  was  listening. 

She  told  one  incident  after  another  of  her  mother's  life, 
incidents  which,  she  told  him,  she  had  not  noted  at  the 
time,  incidents  which  were  now  windows  in  her  own  life, 
letting  in  the  sunlight  her  mother  loved  so  well.  "  All  the 
time  I  was  growing  up,  I  was  blind,  I  didn't  see  anything. 
I  don't  feel  remorseful,  I  suppose  that  is  the  way  children 
have  to  be.  But  I  didn't  see  her.  There  were  so  many 
minor  differences  between  us  .  .  .  tastes,  interests.  I  al- 
ways said  hatefully  to  myself  that  Mother  didn't  understand 
me.  And  it  was  true  too.  As  if  it  matters !  What  if  she 
didn't!  She  never  talked  morality  to  us,  anyhow.  She 
never  talked  much  at  all.  She  didn't  need  to.  She  was 
herself.  No  words  would  express  that.  She  lived  her  life. 
And  there  it  is  now,  there  it  always  will  be  for  me,  food 
for  me  to  live  on.  I  thought  she  had  died.  But  she  has 
never  been  so  living  for  me.  She's  part  of  me  now,  for 
always.  And  just  because  I  see  the  meaning  of  her  life, 
why,  there's  the  meaning  of  mine  as  clear  as  morning.  How 
can  poor  Father  crave  those  '  messages  '  from  her !  Every- 
thing is  a  message  from  her.    We've  lived  with  her.    We 


A  Long  Talk  with  Arnold  473 

have  her  in  our  hearts.  It's  all  brightness  when  I  think  of 
her.  And  I  see  by  that  brightness  what's  in  my  heart,  and 
that's  Austin  .  .  .  Austin ! "  On  the  name,  her  voice  rose, 
expanded,  soared,  wonderfully  rang  in  the  ensuing 
silence.  .  .  . 

Arnold  said  slowly,  without  opening  his  eyes :  "  Yes,  yes, 
I  see.  I  see  how  it  is  all  right  with  you  and  Austin.  He's 
big  enough  for  you,  all  of  you.  And  Felix — he's  not 
so  bad  either — but  he  has,  after  all,  a  yellow  streak.  Poor 
Felix!" 

This  brought  up  to  Sylvia  the  recollection  of  the  day,  so 
short  a  time  ago  when  she  had  sat  on  the  ground  thus, 
much  as  she  now  sat  next  to  Arnold,  and  had  felt  Judith's 
body  rigid  and  tense.  There  was  nothing  rigid  about 
Arnold.  He  was  relaxed  in  an  exhausted  passivity,  a  beaten 
man.  Let  what  would,  befall.  He  seemed  beyond  feeling. 
She  knew  that  probably  never  again,  so  life  goes,  could 
they  speak  together  thus,  like  disembodied  spirits,  freed  for 
once  from  the  blinding,  entangling  tragic  web  of  self-con- 
sciousness. She  wondered  again  if  he  would  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  speak  to  her  of  Judith  She  remembered  something 
else  she  had  meant  to  ask  him,  if  she  could  ever  find  words 
for  her  question ;  and  she  found  that,  in  that  hour  of  high 
seriousness,  they  came  quite  without  effort.  "  Arnold, 
when  I  was  in  Paris,  I  met  Professor  Saunders.  I  ran 
across  him  by  accident.  He  told  me  some  dreadful  things. 
I  thought  they  couldn't  all  be  true.     But  I  wondered " 

Arnold  opened  his  eyes  and  turned  them  on  her.  She 
saw  again,  as  she  had  so  many  times,  the  honesty  of  them. 
They  were  bloodshot,  yellowed,  set  deep  in  dark  hollows; 
but  it  was  a  good  gaze  they  gave.  "  Oh,  don't  take  poor 
old  Saunders  too  seriously.  He  went  all  to  pieces  in  the 
end.  He  had  a  lot  to  say  about  Madrina,  I  suppose.  I 
shouldn't  pay  much  attention  to  it.  Madrina's  not  such 
a  bad  lot  as  he  makes  her  out.  Madrina's  all  right  if  you 
don't  want  anything  out  of  her.  She's  the  way  she  is,  that's 
all.  It's  not  fair  to  blame  her.  We're  all  like  that,"  he 
ended  with  a  pregnant,  explanatory  phrase  which  fell  with 


474  The  Bent  Twig 

an  immense  significance  on  Sylvia's  ear.     "  Madrina's  all 
right  when  she's  got  what  she  wants." 

The  girl  pondered  in  silence  on  this  characterization. 
After  a  time  Arnold  roused  himself  to  say  again :  "  I  mean 
she  wouldn't  go  out  of  her  way  to  hurt  anybody,  for  any- 
thing. She's  not  the  kind  that  enjoys  seeing  other  folks 
squirm.  Only  she  wants  things  the  way  she  wants  them. 
Don't  let  anything  old  Saunders  said  worry  you.  I  suppose 
he  laid  all  my  worthlessness  at  Madrina's  door  too.  He'd 
got  into  that  way  of  thinking,  sort  of  dotty  on  the  subject 
anyhow.  He  was  terribly  hard  hit,  you  know.  I  don't  deny 
either  that  Madrina  did  keep  him  strung  on  hot  wire  for 
several  years.  I  don't  suppose  it  occurred  to  her  that  there 
was  any  reason  why  she  shouldn't  if  he  were  fool  enough. 
I  never  could  see  that  he  wasn't  some  to  blame  too.  All 
he  had  to  do — all  they  any  of  them  ever  had  to  do,  was  to 
get  out  and  stay  out.  Madrina'd  never  lift  a  finger  to 
hinder.  Even  Saunders,  I  guess,  would  have  had  to  admit 
that  Madrina  always  had  plenty  of  dignity.  And  as  for 
me,  great  Scott!  what  could  you  expect  a  woman  like 
Madrina  to  do  with  a  boy  like  me!  She  never  liked  me, 
for  one  thing;  and  then  I  always  bored  her  almost  more 
than  she  could  stand.  But  she  never  showed  her  impa- 
tience, never  once.  She's  really  awfully  good-natured  in 
her  way.  She  wanted  to  make  me  into  a  salon  sort  of  per- 
son, somebody  who'd  talk  at  her  teas — converse,  don't 
you  know.  You  see  me,  don't  you!  It  was  hard  on  hen 
If  she'd  had  you,  now — I  always  thought  you  were  the  only 
person  in  the  world  she  ever  really  cared  for.  She  does, 
]you  know.  All  this  year  you've  been  with  her,  she's  seemed 
so  different,  more  like  a  real  woman.  Maybe  she's  had  her 
troubles  too.  Maybe  she's  been  deathly  lonely.  Don't  you 
go  back  on  her  too  hard.  Madrina's  no  vampire.  That's 
just  old  Saunders'  addled  wits.  She's  one  of  the  nicest  peo- 
ple in  the  world  to  live  with,  if  you  don't  need  her  for  any- 
thing. And  she  really  does  care  a  lot  for  you,  Sylvia.  That 
time  out  in  Chicago,  when  we  were  all  kids,  when  I  wanted 
to  go  to  live  with  your  mother,  I  remember  that  Madrina 


A  Long  Talk  with  Arnold  475 

suggested  to  her  (and  Madrina  would  have  done  it  in  a 
minute,  too) — she  suggested  that  they  change  off,  she  take 
you  to  bring  up  and  I  go  out  to  live  with  your  mother. " 
He  stopped  to  look  at  the  woman  beside  him.  "  I  don't 
know  about  you,  Sylvia,  but  I  guess  it  would  have  made 
some  difference  in  my  life !  " 

Sylvia  drew  back,  horrified  that  he  was  even  in  thought, 
even  for  a  moment  robbing  her  of  her  mother.  "  Oh,  what 
I  would  have  been — I  can't  bear  to  think  of  what  kind  of 
woman  I  would  have  been  without  my  mother !  "  The  idea 
was  terrible  to  her.  She  shrank  away  from  her  aunt  as  never 
before  in  her  life.  The  reminiscence  brought  an  idea,  evi- 
dently as  deeply  moving,  into  Arnold's  mind.  The  words 
burst  from  him,  "  I  might  now  be  married  to  Judith !  "  He 
put  his  hands  over  his  eyes  and  cast  himself  down  among 
the  pine-needles. 

Sylvia  spoke  quickly  lest  she  lose  courage.  "  Arnold ! 
Arnold!  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  yourself  now? 
I'm  so  horribly  anxious  about  you.  I  haven't  dared  speak 
before " 

He  turned  over  and  lay  on  his  back,  staring  up  into  the 
dark  green  of  the  pine.  "  I'm  going  to  drink  myself  to 
death  as  soon  as  I  can,"  he  said  very  quietly.  "  The  doctors 
say  it  won't  take  long." 

She  looked  at  his  wasted  face  and  gave  a  shocked,  pity- 
ing exclamation,  thinking  that  it  would  be  illness  and  not 
drink  which  was  to  come  to  his  rescue  soon. 

He  looked  at  her  askance,  with  his  bloodshot  eyes.  "  Can 
you  give  me  any  single  reason  why  I  shouldn't  ?  "  he  chal- 
lenged her. 

Sylvia,  the  modern,  had  no  answer.  She  murmured 
weakly,  "  Why  must  any  of  us  try  to  be  decent  ?  " 

"  That's  for  the  rest  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  counted  out. 
The  sooner  I  get  myself  out  of  the  way,  the  better  for 
everybody.     That's  what  Judith  thinks." 

The  bitterness  of  his  last  phrase  was  savage.  Sylvia  cried 
out  against  it.  "  Arnold !  That's  cruel  of  you !  It's  kill- 
ing Judith ! " 


476  The  Bent  Twig 

"  She  can't  care  for  me,"  he  said,  with  a  deep,  burning 
resentment.  "  She  can't  ever  have  cared  a  rap,  or  she 
wouldn't  be  able  to " 

Sylvia  would  not  allow  him  to  go  on.  "  You  must  not 
say  such  a  thing,  Arnold.  You  know  Judith's  only  reason  is 
— she  feels  if  she — if  she  had  children  and  they  were " 

He  interrupted  her  with  an  ugly  hardness.  "  Oh,  I  know 
what  her  reason  is,  all  right.  It's  the  latest  fad.  An)* 
magazine  article  can  tell  you  all  about  it.  And  I  don't  take 
any  stock  in  it,  I  tell  you.  It's  just  insanity  to  try  to  guess 
at  every  last  obligation  you  may  possibly  have !  You've  got 
to  live  your  life,  and  have  some  nerve  about  it!  If  Judith 
and  I  love  each  other,  what  is  it  to  anybody  else  if  we  get 
married?  Maybe  we  wouldn't  have  any  children.  Maybe 
they'd  be  all  right — how  could  they  be  anything  else  with 
Judith  for  their  mother?  And  anyhow,  leave  that  to 
them!  Let  them  take  care  of  themselves!  We've  had  to 
do  it  for  ourselves!  What  the  devil  did  my  father  do  for 
me,  I'd  like  to  know,  that  I  should  die  to  keep  my  children 
unborn?  My  mother  was  a  country  girl  from  up  here  in 
the  mountains.  Since  I've  been  staying  here  winters,  I've 
met  some  of  her  people.    Her  aunt  told  me  that  my  father 

was  as  drunk  as  a  lord  on  his  wedding  night What 

did  he  think  of  his  son  ?    Why  should  I  think  of  mine  ?  " 

He  was  so  evidently  talking  wildly,  desperately,  that 
Sylvia  made  no  attempt  to  stop  him,  divining  with  an 
aching  pity  what  lay  under  his  dreadful  words.  But  when 
he  said  again,  "  It's  simply  that  Judith  doesn't  care  enough 
about  me  to  stick  by  me,  now  I'm  down  and  out.  She 
can't  bear  me  in  her  narrow  little  good  world ! "  Judith's 
sister  could  keep  her  silence  no  more. 

"  Look  here,  Arnold,  I  haven't  meant  to  tell  you,  but  I 
can't  have  you  thinking  that.  Listen!  You  know  Judith, 
how  splendid  and  self-controlled  she  is.  She  went  all 
through  the  sorrow  of  Mother's  death  without  once  break- 
ing down,  not  once.  But  the  night  before  I  started  to  come 
here,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  I  heard  such  a  sound  from 
Judith's  room !    It  frightened  me,  so  I  could  hardly  get  my 


A  Long  Talk  with  Arnold  477 

breath!  It  was  Judith  crying,  crying  terribly,  so  that  she 
couldn't  keep  it  back  any  more.  I  never  knew  her  to  cry 
before.  I  didn't  dare  go  into  her  room — Mother  would — 
but  I  didn't  dare.  And  yet  I  couldn't  leave  her  there  alone 
in  such  awful  trouble.     I  stood  by  the  door  in  the  dark — 

oh,  Arnold,  I  don't  know  how  long — and  heard  her 

When  it  began  to  be  light  she  was  quiet,  and  I  went  back  to 
bed ;  and  after  a  while  I  tiptoed  in.  She  had  gone  to  sleep 
at  last.  Arnold,  there  under  her  cheek  was  that  old  base- 
ball cap  of  yours  ...  all  wet,  all  wet  with  her  tears, 
Judith's  tears." 

Before  she  had  finished  she  was  sorry  she  had  spoken. 
Arnold's  face  was  suffused  with  purple.  He  put  his  hand 
up  to  his  collar  and  wrenched  at  it,  clenched  his  fists,  and 
finally,  flinging  his  riding-crop  far  from  him,  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  burst  into  tears.  "  Isn't  it  damnable ! " 
he  said  over  and  over.     "  Isn't  it  damnable !  " 

Sylvia  had  nothing  more  to  say.  It  seemed  indeed 
damnable  to  her.  She  wondered  again  at  Judith's  invincible 
force  of  will.  That  alone  was  the  obstacle — no,  it  was 
something  back  of  Judith's  will,  something  which  even 
Arnold  recognized ;  for  now,  to  her  astonishment,  he  looked 
up,  his  face  smeared  like  a  weeping  child's,  and  said  in  a 
low  tone,  "  You  know,  of  course,  that  Judith's  right." 

The  testimony  was  wrung  out  of  him.  But  it  came.  The 
moment  was  one  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Out  of  her  passionate  pity  was  born  strength  that  was 
not  to  be  denied.  She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  his  dry,  sick 
man's  hand.  "  Arnold,  you  asked  me  to  give  you  a  reason 
why  you  should  get  the  best  you  can  out  of  yourself.  I'll 
give  you  a  reason.  Judith  is  a  reason.  Austin  is  a  reason. 
I'm  a  reason.  I  am  never  going  to  let  you  go.  Judith 
can't  be  the  one  to  help  you  get  through  the  best  you  can, 
even  though  it  may  not  be  so  very  well — poor,  poor 
Judith,  who  would  die  to  be  able  to  help  you!  Mother 
wasn't  allowed  to.  She  wanted  to,  I  see  that  now.  But  I 
can.  I'm  not  a  thousandth  part  as  strong  or  as  good  as 
they;  but  if  we  hang  together!     All  my  life  is  going  to 


478  The  Bent  Twig 

be  settled  for  me  in  a  few  hours.  I  don't  know  how  it's 
going  to  be.  But  however  it  is,  you  will  always  be  in  my 
life.  For  as  long  as  you  live,"  she  caught  her  breath  at 
the  realization  of  how  little  that  phrase  meant,  "  for  as  long 
as  you  live,  you  are  going  to  be  what  you  wanted  to  be, 
what  you  ought  to  have  been,  my  brother — my  mother's 
son." 

He  clung  to  her  hand,  he  clung  to  it  with  such  a  grip 
that  her  fingers  ached — and  she  blessed  the  pain  for  what 
It  meant. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 
"  .  .  .  AND  ALL  THE  TRUMPETS  SOUNDED!" 

They  had  told  her  at  the  farm,  the  old  man  and  the  old 
woman  who  had  looked  so  curiously  at  her,  that  Mr.  Page 
had  gone  on  up  the  wood-road  towards  the  upper  pasture. 
He  liked  to  go  there  sometimes,  they  said,  to  look  at  the 
sunset  from  a  big  rock  that  stood  in  the  edge  of  the  white 
birch  woods.  They  added,  in  extenuation  of  this,  that 
of  course  somebody  had  to  go  up  there  anyhow,  once  in  a 
while,  to  salt  the  sheep. 

Sylvia  had  passed  on,  passed  the  great,  square,  many- 
chimneyed  house,  passed  the  old-fashioned  garden,  and 
struck  into  the  wood-road  beyond  the  bars.  The  sun  was 
so  low  now,  almost  below  the  edge  of  the  Notch,  that  the 
rays  were  level  and  long  behind  her.  So  she  had  walked, 
bathed  in  luminous  gold  at  Versailles,  on  the  day  when 
Austin  had  first  told  her  that  he  loved  her,  on  the  day  she 
had  told  him  the  truth.  From  the  first  moment  she  had 
seen  him  how  he  had  always  brought  out  from  her  the 
truest  and  best,  finer  and  truer  than  anything  she  had 
thought  was  in  her,  like  a  reflection  from  his  own  integrity. 
His  eyes  that  day,  what  clear  wells  of  loyalty  and  honor 
.  .  .  how  her  mother  would  have  loved  him!  And  that 
other  day,  when  he  said  farewell  and  went  away  to  his 
ordeal  .  .  .  she  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant,  pierced  with 
the  recollection  of  his  gaze  on  her!  What  was  she,  what 
poor  thing  transfigured  to  divinity,  that  such  passion,  such 
tenderness  had  been  hers  .  .  .  even  for  a  moment  .  .  . 
even  if  now  .  .  . 

She  looked  timidly  up  the  green  tunnel  of  the  arching 
trees,  fearing  to  see  him  at  any  moment.  And  yet  how 
she   hastened   her   steps   towards   where  he   was!     The 

479 


480  The  Bent  Twig 

moments  were  too  long  till  she   should  find  her  heart's 
home! 

After  a  time,  there  came  a  moment  of  such  terrible 
throbbing  of  the  heart,  such  trembling,  that  she  could 
not  go  on.  She  sat  down  on  a  rock  beside  the  road  and 
pressed  her  shaking  hands  on  her  cheeks.  No,  it  was  too 
awful.  She  had  been  insane  to  think  of  putting  every- 
thing, her  whole  life,  to  the  test  of  a  moment's  shock.  She 
would  go  back.     She  would  write  him.  .  .  . 

She  looked  up  and  saw  her  mother's  gallant  figure  stand 
ing  there  before  her.    She  smiled,  and  started  on.    Strange 
that  she  had  thought  her  mother  could  be  dead.     Her  first 
instinct  had  been  right.     Her  mother,  her  mother  could 
not  die. 

The  road  turned  sharply  to  the  left.  She  came  out  from 
the  white  birches.  She  was  in  the  edge  of  the  pasture, 
sweet-fern  at  her  feet,  a  group  of  sheep  raising  startled 
heads  to  gaze  at  her,  the  sun's  rim  red  on  the  horizon 
below  her.  And  up  there,  the  sunlight  on  his  face,  abov? 
her,  stood  Austin. 

The  sight  of  him  was  like  a  great  burst  of  music  in  her 
heart,  like  a  great  flood  of  light.  Her  doubts,  her  uncer- 
tainties, they  were  gone  out,  as  utterly  as  night  goes  be- 
fore the  sun.  Her  ears  rang  to  a  sound  like  singing 
voices.  For  a  moment  she  did  not  feel  the  ground  under 
her  feet.  .  .  . 

Austin  looked  down  and  saw  her.  He  stood  like  a  man 
in  a  dream. 

And  then  he  knew.  He  knew.  And  Sylvia  knew.  He 
gave  a  great  cry  of  welcome  which  was  to  ring  in  her  ears 
for  all  her  life,  like  a  benediction.  He  ran  down  to  meet 
her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 


THE   END 


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